/P 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 


Novels  by  Isabel  C.  Clarke 

Published  by  Benaiger  Brothers 

In  same  Uniform  Series,  each,  net,  $2.25,  postage  15  cents. 
TRESSIDER'S  SISTER 

Not  only  an  absorbing  love  story,  but  an  essentially  practical  presenta- 
tion of  modern  sociological  conditions  from  the  Catholic  viewpoint  is  this 
latest  novel  by  Miss  Clarke.  _  Her  treatment  of  the  subject  shows  her 
talent  in  a  new  and  brilliant  light. 

URSULA  FINCH 

In  this  book  Miss  Clarke  has  equalled  and  in  some  sense  surpassed 
anything  she  has  ever  done  before. — Catholic  Bulletin. 

THE  ELSTONES 

The  characters  are  intensely  human,  and  thoroughly  loyal,  and  it  is 
on  their  conflicting  loyalties  that  the  plot  is  built.  The  development  is 
very  clever,  the  interest  never  flags,  and  the  story  mounts  steadily  to  the 
climax. — A  merica, 

EUNICE 

It  is  a  story  of  infinite  charm,  perfectly  told,  and  remarkable  for  its 
clear  cut  drawing  of  the  contrast  between  the  spirit  of  this  world  and 
the  spirit  of  the  Church  of  God.— The  Catholic  World. 

LADY  TRENT'S  DAUGHTER 

It  is  interesting  and  fascinating  and  holds  the  reader's  attention  to 
the  final  chapter. — The  Hotniletic  Monthly. 

CHILDREN  OF  EVE 

This  is  a  novel  at  once  powerful  and  tender,  delineated  with  that 
delicate  and  charming  touch  that  has  made  Miss  Clarke's  books  so 
popular. — Canadian  Messenger  of  the  S.  H. 

THE  DEEP  HEART 

A  pure,  wholesome  and  interesting  story. — The  Ecclesiastical  Review. 

WHOSE  NAME  IS  LEGION. 

It  is  an  enthralling  bit  of  fiction,  replete  with  stirring  coincidences. 
Miss  Clarke's  talent  for  character  drawing  is  admirable. — Dominicans. 

FINE  CLAY 

It  is  a  masterly  study  of  an  interesting  problem. — The  Tablett 

PRISONERS'   YEARS 

A  masterpiece  of  sound  and  color,  of  light  and  movement,  and  Cif 
deep  and  sympathetic  understanding. — Pittsburgh  Catholic. 

THE  REST  HOUSE 

Has  the  unique  art  of  arousing  our  interest  and  of  sustaining  it 
through  many  pages  to  the  end. — The  Rosary  Magazine. 

ONLY  ANNE 

A  genuine  and  welcome  addition  to  Catholic  fiction. — Ave  Mario. 

THE  SECRET  CITADEL 

Fragrant  with  the  same  mystical  element  that  stamped  "By  the  Blue 
River  as  a  work  of  art. — Catholic  Transcript* 

BY  THE  BLUE  RIVER 
This  is  an  excellent  novel. — Messenger  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 


THE 
POTTER'S  HOUSE 


A  NOVEL 

BY 

ISABEL  C.  CLARKE 


Naw  YORK,  CINCINNATI,  CHICAGO 

BENZIGER  BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS  OF  BBNZIOBR'S  MAGAZINE 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY  BENZIGER  BROTHERS 


SRLF 
.URL 

513S755 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


CHAPTER  I 7 

CHAPTER  II 15 

CHAPTER  III 26 

CHAPTER  IV 43 

CHAPTER  V 57 

CHAPTER  VI 67 

CHAPTER  VII 84 

CHAPTER  VIII - .  90 

CHAPTER  IX 114 

CHAPTER  X 127 

CHAPTER  XI 140 

CHAPTER  XII 152 

CHAPTER  XIII     .           160 

CHAPTER  XIV 173 

CHAPTER  XV 185 

CHAPTER  XVI 200 

CHAPTER  XVII 209 

CHAPTER  XVIII 218 

CHAPTER  XIX     .     ^ft. 225 

5 


6  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  XX 239 

CHAPTER  XXI 248 

CHAPTER  XXII 266 

CHAPTER  XXIII ,     .  271 

CHAPTER  XXIV .279 

CHAPTER  XXV 286 

CHAPTER  XXVI v.     .     .  294 

CHAPTER  XXVII '    .     .  305 

CHAPTER  XXVIII .  317 

CHAPTER  XXIX 330 

CHAPTER  XXX 341 

CHAPTER  XXXI  ........  348 

CHAPTER  XXXII 360 

CHAPTER  XXXIII     .......  366 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  January  sunshine  spun  golden  webs  as  it 
glanced  fitfully  upon  the  Thames,  illuminating 
the  dingy  wharves  and  warehouses  on  the  southern 
side  of  the  river,  and  enfolding  the  long  grey  line  of 
the  Embankment  in  its  subdued  radiance.  Down 
the  side  streets  from  the  Strand,  congested  with  foot 
passengers,  with  newspaper  boys,  whose  posters  of 
varied  hues  flapped  in  the  chilly  easterly  wind,  and 
with  vehicles  of  every  description,  a  light  dust  scat- 
tered itself  disagreeably.  Hurrying  people  emerged 
from  the  Temple  Station — a  little  crowd  that  melted 
and  dispersed  rapidly  as  it  reached  the  upper  air. 
From  afar  could  be  seen  the  procession  of  motor 
omnibuses  plying  their  way  down  the  Strand  in  fugi- 
tive glimpses  of  vivid  arresting  scarlet  that  acquired 
a  new  significance  and  value  in  the  pale  winter  sun- 
shine. 

A  motor  coming  from  the  Law  Courts  threaded 
its  way  skilfully  across  the  street,  slipped  down  the 
hill  towards  the  Temple,  and  was  soon  travelling 
with  rapidly  accelerating  speed  westwards  along  the 
Embankment.  One  of  the  occupants,  a  girl  of  per- 
haps twenty  years,  leaned  her  head  a  little  out  of  the 
window  to  glance  at  the  ruffled  grey  and  silver  of  the 
river,  at  the  avenue  of  bare  plane-trees,  at  the  trams 
passing  to  and  fro.  Her  companion,  who  was  a 
year  or  two  older,  had  sunk  listlessly  into  the  cor- 
ner of  the  car  as  if  anxious  still  further  to  conceal 
her  heavily-veiled  face  from  the  inquisitive  eyes  of 
the  passers-by.  She  thought,  indeed,  that  she  had 
never  realised  the  subtle  torture  that  could  be 
summed  up  in  the  one  word  staring  until  the  experi- 

7 


8  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

ence  of  the  last  two  days.  She  leaned  back,  closing 
her  eyes  and  did  not  speak;  and  her  attitude,  limp 
and  weary,  seemed  to  convey  an  inarticulate  appeal 
for  silence. 

Suddenly  the  girl  turned  towards  her,  and  laid  an 
abrupt  hand  upon  hers.  She  suffered  the  touch  with- 
out remonstrance,  and  the  slight,  shrinking  move- 
ment she  betrayed  was  evidently  unobserved. 

"So  that's  over,  darling.  How  thankful  you  must 
be  I" 

Gillian  Driscoll  did  not  answer.  The  expressed 
sympathy  produced  an  inward  recoil,  just  as  the 
touch  of  the  hand  that  still  clasped  hers  had  evoked 
the  physical  shrinking.  Her  face  behind  the  veil 
was  white,  and  her  features,  small,  regular,  and 
delicate,  were  as  little  expressive  of  any  emotion, 
whether  of  thankfulness,  relief,  or  sorrow,  as  those 
of  a  mask.  Indeed  her  mind  was  curiously  blank, 
and  if  she  had  been  capable  of  any  definite  feeling 
it  would  have  been  that  of  a  slight  irritation  towards 
the  girl  whose  adoring  eyes  betrayed  her  sympathetic 
devotion.  She  desired  only  to  be  alone,  but  the 
effort  of  ridding  herself  of  Joan  Pallant  promised 
an  exertion  to  which  she  felt  singularly  unequal. 
She  therefore  endured  in  silence. 

"You  looked  simply  splendid,  Jill  I" 

Splendid?  Almost,  the  word  provoked  a  smile — 
the  slight  ironical  smile  of  the  woman  clever  enough 
to  analyse  the  measure  of  her  own  disillusionment. 
Splendid  .  .  .  splendid  .  .  .  the  thrumming  of  the 
engines  seemed  to  roll  out  the  word  with  mocking, 
rhythmic  reiteration.  She,  who  had  drunk  deep  of 
the  cup  of  humiliation,  who  had  seemed  to  herself 
soiled  beyond  all  hope  of  purification,  had  taken 
refuge  behind  the  wall  of  her  pride,  and  she  had 
looked  in  Joan's  eyes  splendid.  What  a  word  to 
use  for  a  woman  in  her  position,  who  through  no 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  9 

fault  of  her  own  had  been  dragged  in  the  unspeak- 
able dust  of  her  husband's  dishonour.  Across  the 
pause  that  followed,  some  words  of  his  came  back 
to  her:  "What  a  little  fool  Joan  is!"  They  even 
seemed  to  give  her  courage  now  to  endure  Joan's 
undesired  presence  and  sympathy. 

Did  the  girl  imagine  perhaps  that  her  friendship 
might  presently  acquire  a  new  value  from  her  own 
changed  position — that  she  would  be  admitted  to 
a  closer  intimacy?  The  wife  of  Aylmer  Driscoll, 
the  distinguished  poet  and  dramatist,  had  perhaps 
not  always  been  accessible,  for  in  their  own  circle 
her  popularity  was  scarcely  less  than  his  own.  Now, 
as  the  deserted  woman,  doubly  betrayed  by  husband 
and  friend,  driven  by  circumstances  to  divorce  him 
and  expose  to  public  view  the  precise  measure  of 
her  misery  and  humiliation,  she  would  no  doubt  find 
herself  abruptly  fallen  from  the  old  pedestal,  from 
the  second  niche,  as  it  were,  in  the  temple,  and 
might  even  become  a  prey  to  idle  Joans  and  insig- 
nificant humble  worshippers. 

The  scenes  of  the  past  two  days  passed  rapidly 
before  her  eyes.  Often  she  had  seemed  to  herself 
to  be  one  of  the  figures  of  a  dream — a  bad  but 
wholly  unreal  dream.  She  could  always  be  silent; 
it  was  easy  for  her  not  to  speak;  the  real  hurt  came 
when  speech  was  compulsory,  when  her  wound  had 
to  be  made  public.  To  her  the  story  was  no  new 
one.  She  had  known  for  two  years  her  husband's 
diminishing  love,  so  incredibly,  monstrously  changed 
from  the  ardour  of  the  honeymoon  nearly  four  years 
ago  in  wonderful  days  of  June  so  different  from  the 
winter  ones  which  had  seen  the  final  act  of  the 
piteous  little  drama.  She  had  known  intuitively, 
could  almost  have  given  a  date  to  the  change,  but 
she  had  not  guessed  then  at  the  identity  of  the  third 
person.  She  had  been  so  blind,  so  slow  to  see.  Hers 


io  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

was  a  nature  incapable  alike  of  suspicion  or  jealousy. 
Least  of  all  had  it  ever  occurred  to  her  to  suspect 
Deborah  Venning,  her  own  friend,  the  friend  of 
her  girlhood. 

And  it  was  for  Deborah's  sake  that  she  had 
yielded  to  Aylmer's  fierce  entreaties  that  she  should 
divorce  him.  But  he  had  never  mentioned  her.  He 
believed  that  Gillian  was  still  ignorant.  Deborah's 
name  from  first  to  last  had  never  been  mentioned; 
her  fair  fame  had  remained  untouched  by  breath 
of  scandal.  And  even  if  they  sometimes  suspected 
that  Gillian  had  guessed  or  learned  the  truth  about 
them  they  had  counted  upon  her  capacity  for  silence. 
Deborah,  who  had  demolished  so  deliberately  the 
palace  of  her  friend's  happiness — such  a  fair  and 
beautiful  palace  full  of  the  treasures  of  precious 
memories  both  sweet  and  sad — had  known  too  that 
she  could  rely  upon  the  ultimate  silence  of  the 
woman  with  whom  she  had  to  deal.  .  .  . 

When  Gillian  looked  back  upon  it  she  saw  that 
Deborah's  adoration  had  been  scarcely  less  slavish 
than  that  of  Joan.  She  had  been  her  bridesmaid; 
she  was  the  first  to  greet  her  on  her  return  from  her 
honeymoon,  regarding  Aylmer,  the  dispossessor, 
with  a  jealous  dislike  that  first  amused  him  and  then 
provoked  him  to  a  half  satirical  endeavour  to 
change  it.  The  precise  date  of  that  change  Gillian 
never  knew.  Deborah  had  left  town,  had  gone  to 
live  in  the  country  with  her  invalid  father,  had  taken 
to  gardening,  and  thus  had  a  little  disappeared  from 
the  horizon.  Rumours  of  her  engagement  were 
circulated  from  time  to  time,  and  then  as  quickly 
denied.  Photographs  of  her  garden  frequently 
found  their  way  into  illustrated  journals  or  into  those 
luxurious  books  on  gardening  which  excite  the  envi- 
ous admiration  of  the  amateur. 

And  Gillian  herself  had  lived  in  a  world  apart  for 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  n 

the  first  two  years  of  her  married  life.  At  first  she 
had  been  wholly  enveloped  in  Aylmer's  love;  then 
followed  the  birth  of  their  only  child,  a  little  girl 
who  survived  only  six  months.  Prostrated  with 
grief  she  had  for  a  long  time  withdrawn  herself  from 
all  society.  When  she  took  up  the  old  life  again 
she  found  it  changed.  Aylmer  had  just  achieved  a 
wonderful  success  with  a  new  book  of  poems,  and 
she  continued  to  revolve  a  happy  satellite  round  that 
strangely  shining  planet.  She  had  half  forgotten 
Deborah,  whom  she  had  seen  sobbing  wildly  at  the 
baby's  funeral.  She  had  said  to  Aylmer  when  they 
returned  to  the  drearily  silent  and  empty  house, 

"What  made  Deborah  cry  like  that?  She  never 
seemed  to  take  much  notice  of  Baby.  .  .  ."  She, 
feeling  like  a  stone,  had  perhaps  envied  those  facile, 
abundant  tears. 

Aylmer's  answer  for  the  first  time  had  struck  a 
jarring  note. 

"She  has  such  a  very  tender  heart,"  he  said;  "she 
was  crying  for  our  grief.  You  seem  to  forget  how 
devoted  Deborah  has  always  been  to  you." 

It  had  faded  quickly  from  her  remembrance,  that 
speech,  because  she  was  in  such  grief  that  her  whole 
world  was  temporarily  darkened.  At  first  she  had 
hoped  for  another  child,  but  no  child  came  to  fill  the 
empty  nursery.  She  roused  herself  at  last,  accusing 
herself  of  neglecting  Aylmer,  of  flinging  him  on  his 
own  resources  for  amusement  and  relaxation,  of 
withdrawing  herself  too  rigorously  from  all  society. 
.  .  .  How  could  one  expect  a  man  primarily  inter- 
ested in  his  own  poetry,  his  own  career,  to  continue 
to  grieve  for  a  small  baby  of  six  months  old? 

Gillian,  the  mother,  had  felt  as  if  the  heart  had 
been  torn  out  of  her  body. 

And  now  the  end.  .  .  .  She  had  looked  upon 
Aylmer's  face  that  day  for  perhaps  the  last  time. 


12 


It  was  a  handsome  face,  scornful,  with  brown  eyes 
that  almost  matched  the  red-brown  hair.  Something 
of  Shelley  about  the  lips  and  brow.  Yes,  it  was  a 
poet's  face.  She  did  not  love  him  any  more,  but 
she  had  not  yet  learned  to  hate  him.  She  felt  her- 
self incapable  of  emotion  or  feeling,  except  that 
strange  and  bitter  sense  of  raw,  wounded  pride.  She 
was  as  one  who  stands  among  the  ruins  caused  by  a 
sudden  earthquake  and  is  only  concerned  because  the 
intimate  details  of  her  home  have  been  ruthlessly 
exposed  to  public  view.  The  ruins  were  on  such  a 
colossal  scale,  involving  past,  present,  and  future, 
that  even  now  she  could  hardly  realise  their  full 
significance. 

The  car  had  passed  down  the  Mall  and  was  near- 
ing  Buckingham  Palace — freshly,  almost  insolently 
white  in  the  glory  of  its  new  fagade — when  she 
turned  with  a  touch  of  impatience  to  Joan.  That 
devotion  recalled  the  days  of  Deborah's  friendship, 
and  Joan  was  to  suffer  a  little  vicariously  for  evok- 
ing its  unpleasant  memory.  Gillian  had  lost  her 
faith  alike  in  men  and  women;  she  saw  a  potential 
enemy  in  every  one  that  approached  her.  In  her 
heart  she  blamed  Deborah  more  bitterly  than 
Aylmer. 

"I  will  drop  you,  Joan,"  she  said,  "before  I  go 
home." 

Joan's  face  flushed.     "Oh,  I  thought "  she 

began. 

"Not  to-day,"  said  Gillian  with  decision.  "I  have 
a  great  deal  to  do.  I  must  be  alone." 

"Oh,  but  you  mustn't  tire  yourself  with  business, 
darling.  You'll  be  ill  after  this  awful  trial  and 
strain.  .  .  ." 

"111?  What  nonsense!  I  was  never  better  in 
my  life." 

To  prevent  further  discussion  she  lifted  the  speak- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  13 

ing-tube  and  in  a  cold,  firm  voice  directed  the  chauf- 
feur to  drive  to  Joan's  address.  A  few  minutes 
brought  them  to  Lady  Pallant's  house  in  Belgrave 
Square.  The  decisive  action  had  succeeded  although 
there  were  tears  in  Joan's  blue  eyes.  .  .  .  But  of 
course  Gillian  was  upset,  she  was  not  herself.  She 
had  borne  herself  like  a  heroine  all  through  those 
dreadful  proceedings;  she  had  been,  in  a  word, 
"splendid."  Joan's  vocabulary  was  limited  rather 
than  discriminative.  In  her  unaltered  loyalty  she 
could  make  excuses  even  for  this  sudden  shunting 
of  her  own  person.  Dropping  a  hasty  kiss  on  Gil- 
lian's averted  cheek  she  alighted  from  the  car. 

"Home?"  she  asked  interrogatively. 

"Yes — home,  please,"  said  Gillian's  cold,  weary 
little  voice. 

The  motor  slid  on  westward.  At  the  door  of  an 
immense  block  of  red-brick  flats  overlooking  Kens- 
ington Gardens  it  once  more  stopped,  and  Gillian's 
slim  figure  emerged.  She  paused  a  moment  to  give 
some  instructions  to  the  chauffeur,  then,  without 
summoning  the  lift  (for  was  not  the  porter  deeply 
interested  in  the  case  of  Driscoll  v.  Driscoll?),  she 
hurried  up  the  single  flight  of  stairs  that  led  to  her 
domain.  Once  more,  after  the  nightmare  happen- 
ings of  the  day,  she  found  herself  alone. 

The  flat  held  no  memories  of  Aylmer.  She  had 
taken  it  furnished,  and  had  moved  into  it  with  a  few 
of  her  own  things  when  the  definite  rupture  between 
them  had  taken  place  a  few  months  ago.  She  had 
not  disliked  its  fashionable,  rather  banal  decorations 
that  were  so  normal,  so  utterly  lacking  in  individ- 
uality. In  London  she  thought  there  must  be  thou- 
sands of  flats  similarly  furnished  and  arranged.  It 
was  all  done  with  the  taste  of  the  Ideal  Home  deco- 
rator; one  could  see  in  exhibitions  whole  houses 
furnished  to  this  pattern,  each  room  a  little  model 


i4  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

of  its  kind,  with  nothing  superfluous,  with  the  per- 
sonal note  completely  absent;  with  no  suggestion  of 
individual  taste  or  preference.  Bright  and  polished, 
it  spoke  only  of  a  taste  that  was  professionally  artis- 
tic— the  comfortable  refuge  of  those  who  fear  to 
exercise  their  own  judgment  in  such  matters  as  car- 
pets, curtains,  wall-papers,  and  furniture.  It  was, 
indeed,  just  the  abode  for  a  woman  who  had  learned 
to  desire  only  the  commonplace.  This  afternoon  its 
aspect  of  shining  welcome  gave  Gillian  a  vague  sense 
of  comfort.  She  took  off  her  hat,  and  the  heavy, 
suffocating  veil,  and  lay  down  on  the  sofa  in  her 
drawing-room  whose  two  big  windows  looked  out 
upon  the  huge  elms  and  pleasant  green  sward  of 
Kensington  Gardens. 


CHAPTER  II 

GILLIAN  had  been  married  to  Aylmer  Driscoll 
nearly  four  years  before,  from  the  house  of  her 
mother's  cousin,  Lady  Pallant.  She  was  an  orphan 
and  a  ward  in  Chancery,  and  her  girlhood  had  been 
spent  exclusively  in  Bath  with  her  two  elderly  un- 
married aunts,  the  Misses  Martha  and  Letitia  Stan- 
way,  who  had  a  house  in  Brock  Street.  When  she 
was  eighteen,  Lady  Pallant  invited  her  to  spend  the 
season  with  her  in  town. 

"If  she  is  as  pretty  as  she  promised  to  be  as  a  little 
thing,"  observed  Lady  Pallant  reflectively  as  she 
sent  the  invitation,  "I  shall  get  her  off  my  hands 
before  Joan  comes  out."  Lurking  in  her  mind  there 
was  perhaps  the  unexpressed  hope  that  Paul,  her 
only  son,  might  take  a  fancy  to  her.  She  knew  to  a 
penny  the  sum  of  Gillian's  dot. 

Six  weeks  later,  so  rapidly  did  events  succeed  one 
another,  Gillian  consulted  her  on  the  subject  of  Dris- 
coll's  offer  of  marriage.  He  was  twelve  years  older 
than  she  was,  and  he  looked  more.  He  was  a  clever, 
distinguished  man  with  a  good  private  income. 
Lady  Pallant  was  one  of  those  people  who  professed 
not  to  understand  poetry,  but  she  had  heard  it  said 
that  Aylmer's  was  good.  On  the  whole  she  ap- 
proved, and  she  managed  with  admirable  success  to 
conceal  her  own  disappointment.  Gillian's  marriage 
took  place  in  the  early  days  of  June.  She  was 
attended  by  four  bridesmaids,  Deborah  Venning, 
Joan  Pallant,  then  a  schoolgirl,  and  Aylmer's  two 
younger  unmarried  sisters.  Miss  Letitia  Stanway, 
who  was  of  an  emotional  and  sentimental  disposi- 
tion, wept  audibly  during  the  ceremony  in  one  of  the 
front  pews,  thereby  exciting  the  contemptuous  an- 

15 


1 6  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

noyance  of  Lady  Pallant.  Gillian  held  herself  like 
a  proud  young  queen,  and  looked  beautiful.  .  .  . 

Now  her  marriage  was  at  an  end — the  marriage 
that  was  to  have  lasted  all  their  lives,  until  death 
should  part  them.  She  had  loved  Aylmer ;  she  would 
have  gone  on  loving  him  if  he  had  let  her.  Had  it 
been  her  fault?  Had  she  failed  in  the  essential 
qualities  of  a  wife — in  sympathy,  interest,  encour- 
agement of  that  work  by  which  he  set  so  much  store? 
She  had  been  very  young,  of  course,  and  wholly  in- 
experienced— Joan  could  have  given  her  points  in 
knowledge  of  the  world.  That  Bath  upbringing  had 
not  been  an  adequate  equipment  for  her  future  life. 

Deborah,  her  one  intimate  friend,  had  always 
seemed  so  much  more  capable  and  wise  than  her- 
self; she  had  always  consulted  Deborah.  It  was  she 
who  had  first  drawn  Gillian's  attention  to  the  fact 
that  Aylmer  had  fallen  in  love  with  her.  Deborah 
had  had  two  proposals,  and  knew,  as  she  expressed 
it,  the  symptoms.  She  was  never  greatly  in  favour 
of  the  marriage.  Aylmer  was  not  nearly  good 
enough  for  her  darling  Jill.  She  relented,  however, 
when  she  found  that  Gillian's  affections  and  vanity 
were  alike  stirred  by  this  handsome,  clever,  and 
withal  ardent  lover.  Deborah  made,  so  many  peo- 
ple said,  a  strikingly  handsome  bridesmaid.  Joan, 
in  those  days  a  timid  worshipper,  envied  Miss  Ven- 
ning  for  the  closer  measure  of  intimacy  and  friend- 
ship she  enjoyed. 

What  a  long  time  ago  it  all  seemed  I  In  contrast 
to  the  pale  shy  girl  who,  dressed  in  white  satin  and 
wearing  the  bride's  insignia  of  orange  blossoms  in 
her  hair,  had  promised  to  love,  honour,  and  obey 
Aylmer  Driscoll,  she  felt  herself  to  be  an  old  woman. 
These  last  few  days  seemed  to  have  added  ten  years 
to  her  life.  As  she  lay  upon  the  sofa  watching  the 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  17 

light  fade  and  fail  in  the  London  sky,  she  looked 
exhausted,  not  only  with  the  strain  of  that  so  grimly 
protracted  trial  as  by  the  continued  effort  to  be  self- 
controlled,  an  effort  which  as  she  had  gathered  from 
Joan's  exaggerated  admiration  had  been  at  least 
partially  successful.  Yet  her  part  in  the  proceedings 
had  been  very  slight;  they  had  spared  her  all  they 
could.  As  she  was  leaving  the  court  she  heard  a 
strange  woman  say:  "What  a  girl!  She  must  be 
older  than  she  looks  though,  if  she's  been  married 
four  years."  She  had  felt  almost  grateful  to  her 
unknown  critic,  for  she  felt  a  hundred,  such  an  ugly, 
soiled,  withered  hundred.  .  .  . 

How  she  had  hated  that  sordid  scene,  unduly  pro- 
tracted by  her  trustees  on  a  question  of  the  alimony 
she  was  to  receive.  She  had  felt  soiled  all  over — she 
who  could  remember  crying  as  a  little  child  if  she 
soiled  her  hands!  She  had  been  compelled  to  look 
at  Aylmer,  her  own  husband  who  had  once  loved  her, 
as  if  he  were  a  stranger,  a  cruel  hostile  stranger  who 
could  still  hurt  her  although  all  her  love  for  him  had 
perished  when  she  learned  the  truth.  It  had  been 
unbearable.  His  eyes  had  searched  her  face  piti- 
lessly— those  strange  powerful  eyes  of  his.  .  .  .  She 
was  thankful  to  creep  away  out  of  his  sight.  She 
felt  all  the  time  as  if  her  self-control  would  give 
way,  and  she  would  suddenly  hear  herself  cry  aloud : 
"You  know  it  is  all  Deborah's  doing.  .  .  .  Deborah 
has  taken  you  away  from  me  I"  Sometimes  the 
words  echoed  in  her  ears  just  as  if  she  had  really 
surrendered  to  that  mad  impulse  and  uttered  them. 
.  .  .  And  she  would  have  been  revenged.  She 
would  have  punished  them  both,  faithless  husband 
and  false  friend,  for  their  treatment  of  her,  for  their 
hideous  perfidy.  .  .  . 

But  the  words  had  never  been  uttered,  and  she 
had  given  Aylmer  back  his  freedom,  and  Deborah's 


1 8  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

name  had  never  been  mentioned,  her  fair  fame  re- 
mained untouched. 

What  a  strange  world — a  world  in  which  she  sud- 
denly found  herself  quite  alone.  Her  child  was 
dead;  she  could  feel  almost  thankful  for  that  now; 
a  child  inevitably  complicated  the  position  of  di- 
vorced parents.  She  was  deserted  and  abandoned. 
True,  the  doors  of  the  little  dark  grey  house  in 
Brock  Street  were  open  to  her,  but  she  felt  that  she 
could  not  return  to  the  scenes  of  her  girlhood.  Her 
pride  forbade  it.  And  she  knew  instinctively  it 
would  have  been  a  grievous  trial  to  the  two  old 
aunts.  They  were  terribly  shocked  as  it  was,  and  to 
have  Gillian  back  in  their  midst,  to  be  subjected  to 
the  inevitable  questioning  of  all  their  friends,  would 
have  been  a  bitter  ordeal. 

The  day  had  not  fulfilled  its  earlier  promise,  and 
the  clouds  that  had  gathered  behind  Kensington 
Palace  had  brought  heavy  showers  of  rain.  A  wind 
had  sprung  up  and  stirred  to  violent  commotion  the 
black  lace-like  branches  of  the  great  elms.  Crowded 
motor  omnibuses  passed  swiftly  along  the  wet  and 
slippery  highway,  the  luckless  outside  passengers 
clustering  miserably  beneath  dripping  umbrellas. 

Gillian  had  had  her  tea,  and  the  maid  had  long 
ago  returned  to  fetch  the  tray,  on  which  stood  the 
untasted  bread-and-butter  and  cake  that  had  been 
prepared  for  her.  Mrs.  Driscoll  still  lay  on  the  sofa 
idly  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  evening  papers. 
From  the  pages  of  each  one  she  saw  the  hideous 
headline,  "SOCIETY  DIVORCE  CASE:  VERDICT." 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  bell;  she  heard  footsteps, 
a  man's  voice  in  the  hall.  Who  could  it  be  at  this 
hour?  The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  pointed  to 
half-past  six.  And  she  had  given  orders  that  she 
would  not  be  at  home  to  any  one.  Surely  no  one 
would  dare  intrude  upon  her  now.  The  door  opened 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  19 

and  the  maid  brought  in  a  card  and  gave  it  to  her. 
The  name  brought  an  angry  little  flush  to  her  face. 
Joan,  not  daring  to  come  herself,  had  sent  an  emis- 
sary in  the  person  of  her  brother. 

"You  must  say  I  can't  possibly  see  any  one,"  she 
said,  rising  from  the  sofa. 

"Mr.  Pallant  says  he's  come  on  business,  with  a 
very  important  message  from  her  ladyship,  ma'am," 
said  the  maid.  "He  says  he  won't  detain  you  more 
than  a  moment.  I  told  him  your  wishes,  ma'am." 

"Very  well — I  suppose  I  must  see  him  then." 

Gillian  went  up  to  the  mirror  and  smoothed  her 
dark  hair  with  her  hands.  Then  turning,  she  moved 
forward  to  greet  her  visitor. 

All  her  movements  were  graceful;  the  lines  of 
her  figure  were  slim,  straight,  rather  fine-drawn ;  the 
poise  of  her  little  head  always  gave  a  touch  of  arro- 
gance to  her  mien. 

The  door  had  closed  upon  Paul  Pallant.  He  came 
up  to  her  and  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  swiftly, 
masterfully. 

"I  knew  you  were  in,"  he  said  in  his  cool  steady 
voice.  "I  felt  I  simply  must  see  you.  So  I  invented 
that  message  from  my  mother.  Rather  clever  of 
me,  wasn't  it?  Your  maid's  a  bit  of  a  dragon,  Jill!" 

She  did  not  speak.  Across  her  pain  his  strong 
touch  comforted  her.  She  had  never  known  Paul 
very  well.  She  had  been  too  much  engrossed  in 
Aylmer  during  those  few  weeks  she  had  spent  under 
his  mother's  roof  prior  to  her  marriage  to  take  much 
heed  of  the  pale  taciturn  youth  who  came  up  for 
occasional  week-ends  from  Aldershot.  But  he  had 
always  been  friendly  and  pleasant,  and  once  Joan 
had  eagerly  repeated  to  her  that  Paul  had  said  she 
was  very  pretty.  Joan  always  thirsted  for  corrobo- 
ration  of  her  own  opinion;  she  did  not  wish  to  be 
the  sole  worshipper  in  the  temple. 


20  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

She  took  her  hands  away  and  sat  down,  turning 
her  face  from  the  light.  And  Paul  stood  there, 
steadily  surveying  her. 

"You  have  been  crying,"  he  said  at  last,  calmly 
looking  down  at  her. 

"I  suppose  I  have,"  said  Gillian  weakly. 

"Don't— don't,  Jill,"  he  said. 

He  spoke  as  if  her  tears  were  swords  that  pierced 
him. 

"I  can't  help  it.  You  would  cry  if  you  had  gone 
through  what  I  have  to-day!" 

"No,  I  should  not.  I  should  be  too  busy  killing 
Aylmer  to  cry,"  he  said,  and  his  face  grew  hard. 

"Why  should  you  want  to  kill  him?  I  don't  in 
the  least  want  him  to  die.  Living  is  so  much 
harder!" 

"You're  frozen,  child,"  said  Paul.  "May  I  make 
up  the  fire?" 

Before  she  could  answer  he  was  on  his  knees 
upon  the  hearth-rug.  He  raked  out  the  ashes,  put 
on  some  lumps  of  coal,  one  by  one,  and  watched  as 
the  first  little  grey  swirl  of  smoke  gave  place  to  sud- 
den flame.  Gillian  found  herself  noting  the  deft 
movements  of  his  thin  brown  hands. 

His  self-imposed  task  finished,  they  sat  opposite 
to  each  other  in  silence.  Paul  Pallant's  thin  face 
was  a  little  restless.  His  eyes  were  very  bright. 

"I  was  not  there  to-day,"  he  said  at  last,  "although 
I  wished  to  be.  .  .  .  But  Joan  told  me  that  she 
went.  I  hope  she  didn't  worry  you  most  awfully?" 

"Oh  no,"  said  Gillian.  "I'm  sorry  I  couldn't 
bring  her  back  with  me.  She  wanted  to  come.  But 
I  preferred  to  be  alone." 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  not  so  amenable  as  Joan,"  he 
said  quietly,  and  he  looked  away  from  her,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  kindling  fire.  "Let  me  stay  a  few 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  21 

minutes,  Gillian."  His  voice  sank  to  a  sudden 
meekness.  "I've  been  wanting  to  see  you  simply 
frightfully  all  day." 

It  struck  her  that  exaggeration  of  speech  must  be 
a  peculiarity  of  the  Pallant  family.  It  was  certainly 
not  derived  from  Lady  Pallant,  whose  words  were 
always  few  and  singularly  to  the  point. 

Then  quite  abruptly,  without  further  hesitation  or 
preliminary,  Paul  said: 

"I  love  you.  Didn't  you  ever  guess  it?  Do  you 
love  me,  Gillian?" 

He  stood  up  now,  and  his  face,  always  rather 
emotionless,  had  grown  quite  pale. 

"I  never  thought  about  it.  Why  should  I  love 
you?  How  could  I?" 

He  looked  astonished.  Was  it  possible  she  did 
not  comprehend  all  the  vital  significance  of  his 
words  ? 

"I  love  you,  Jill,"  he  said  again. 

"Don't!"  And  now  she  lifted  up  her  hand  as  if 
in  entreaty.  "I  hate  to  hear  you  say  it." 

The  odd  and  strange  whiteness  of  his  face,  the 
blazing  darkness  of  nis  eyes,  alarmed  her.  "It 
sounds  so — so  wrong,"  she  added. 

"To-day,"  he  said  slowly,  "has  given  me  the  right 
to  speak.' 

"Why  should  it?"  she  cried  petulantly.  "To- 
day hasn't  made  me  any  the  less  Aylmer's  wife." 

"You  are  not  his  wife  any  more,  thank  God,"  said 
Paul.  "In  six  months  you  will  be  absolutely  free." 

"Please  don't,"  she  said  imploringly.  "I  feel  it  is 
so  wicked — so  wrong."  Her  voice  was  troubled. 
"Horribly  wrong.  I  have  not  been  at  all  wicked, 
and  yet  I  feel  so  soiled  and  disgraced.  .  .  ." 

In  the  pause  that  followed  Gillian  gathered  cour- 
age. 

"You  are  almost  as  silly  as  Joan,"  she  said,  but 


22  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

the  little  laugh  that  followed  this  speech  was  unsuc- 
cessful. 

"Joan!"  he  said  contemptuously,  "you  are  not 
surely  going  to  compare  a  schoolgirl's  folly  with  the 
kind  of  love  I  am  offering  you  now!" 

"It  makes  my  position  all  the  worse  that  you 
should  dare  to  come  here  like  this — and  deliberately 
make  love  to  me !"  she  declared  wrathfully. 

But  Paul,  unheeding,  knelt  down  between  her  and 
the  fire  and  possessed  himself  of  her  two  cold  little 
hands. 

"I  love  you,  Jill,"  he  said.  "I  have  waited  for 
to-day  for  four  years." 

She  wrenched  her  hands  free. 

"I  won't  listen  to  you !  What  you  say  is  impos- 
sible .  .  .  you  are  insulting  me !" 

"Insulting  you?  When  I  love  you?  When  I 
long  for  the  day  when  I  can  make  you  my  wife.  .  .  ." 

"I  shall  never  be  your  wife.    I  am  Aylmer's  wife." 

She  had  never  envisaged  the  future,  nor  dreamed 
that  it  could  hold  for  her  a  new  love,  another  mar- 
riage. 

"Don't  speak  to  me  of  Aylmer.  It  makes  me 
want  more  than  ever  to  kill  him !" 

He  rose  and  made  a  few  steps  abruptly  up  and 
down  the  room.  Then  he  came  back  to  her  side. 

"And  in  any  case,"  she  went  on,  "I  should  never 
dream  of  marrying  again.  I  am  afraid  of  love.  It 
can  hurt  too  much.  I  would  far  rather  be  alone 
.  .  .  without  it!" 

"You  need  not  be  afraid  of  my  love,"  he  said 
quietly;  "I  worship  you  too  much!" 

She  did  not  speak.  She  struggled  against  the 
slowly  growing  conviction  that  his  words,  his  touch, 
his  very  presence,  were  subtly  comforting  her. 

And  she  had  no  need  of  comfort.  .  .  .  Her  soul 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  23 

cried  out  fiercely  for  solitude.  .  .  .  The  Pallants 
were  engaged  in  a  conspiracy  to  deny  her  that  soli- 
tude. It  only  remained  now  for  Lady  Pallant  to 
come  and  offer  a  few  blunt  words  of  sympathy,  prac- 
tical and  unimaginative.  .  .  . 

"I  assure  you,"  she  said  impulsively,  "I  had  quite 
as  much  as  I  could  bear  from  Joan  to-day." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said;  "I'm  sure  she  was 
very  trying.  But  she  means  well,  poor  little  kid. 
I'm  afraid  it  runs  in  the  family  to  be  foolish  about 
you." 

He  had  turned  her  sword  against  himself. 

"You  should  have  sent  her  off,"  he  added. 

She  received  this  advice  with  a  meaning  silence. 

"She's  awfully  devoted  to  you,"  he  went  on;  "she's 
taken  it  very  much  to  heart.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  don't  I  know  it?  I  don't  want  anybody's 
devotion — either  yours  or  hers!"  She  spoke  vehe- 
mently. 

"I'm  sure  you  must  be  jolly  well  fed  up  with  life," 
he  said,  suddenly  breaking  into  slang  that  won  an 
unwilling  smile  from  her.  "But  you'll  come  and 
see  us  whenever  you  feel  inclined,  won't  you,  Jill? 
The  house  is  your  home  whenever  you  choose  to 
make  it  so.  I'm  sure  my  mother  would  have  sent 
all  kinds  of  messages  if  she'd  known  I  was  coming." 

"I'll  come  and  say  good-bye,"  she  said,  relenting 
a  little.  "You  see,  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  go 
abroad  almost  at  once.  In  a  few  days  I  shall  go  to 
Paris  and  then  to  Italy.  I  thought  of  starting  next 
Saturday." 

"On  Saturday?  Surely  not  so  soon  as  that?  You 
don't  let  the  grass  grow  under  your  feet,  do  you?" 
His  tone  was  slightly  hurt.  "Why  must  you  be  so 
precipitate?" 

"I  don't  like  these  cold  winter  months  in  England. 


24  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

It's  warmer  in  Italy.  There's  more  sunshine,  and 
I'm  longing  to  go  away  to  shut  it  all  out.  To  forget 
if  I  can!"  She  burst  suddenly  into  tears. 

"You  oughtn't  to  go  alone,  anyhow,"  he  said  with 
decision.  "Can't  you  get  some  friend  to  go  with 
you?  I'm  sure  Joan  would  go  like  a  shot  if  you 
could  get  round  mother  to  let  her.  Or  that  other 
friend  of  yours — Miss  Venning?" 

"What,  Deborah?"  she  almost  screamed.  "Take 
Deborah  with  me?"  Her  tears  threatened  now  to 
become  hysterical;  she  continued  to  sob,  uttering 
broken  sentences.  "I  shouldn't  dream  of  taking 
Deborah  with  me  I  Oh,  please  go  away,  Paul  I  I 
simply  can't  bear  any  more.  Give  my  love  to  Cousin 
Janet.  .  .  .  Say  I'll  try  and  come  in  and  say  good- 
bye to  her  .  .  .  and  Joan.  And  if  you  care  for 
me,  do  try  and  stop  Joan  from  coming  here  I" 

"I  say — I'm  afraid  I've  upset  you  most  awfully," 
he  said  with  contrition.  He  paused  for  a  moment, 
wondering  if  he  ought  to  leave  her  at  once.  "Jill," 
he  said,  "I  can't  go  away  like  this — I  must  know 
that  I'm  going  to  see  you  again.  You  must  really 
tell  me  a  little  more."  His  face  clouded,  and  be- 
came suddenly  gloomy  and  anxious.  "I  spoke  too 
soon — and  I'm  sorry.  I  might  have  known  you 
weren't  in  the  mood  to  listen.  But  it's  too  late  to 
take  back  my  words.  I  love  you — and  I'm  sure  I 
could  make  you  happy — I'm  sure  I  could  give  you 
back  the  happiness  you've  lost.  You'll  let  me  try, 
won't  you — one  of  these  days?" 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  can't  say  anything  now.  As  I 
told  you  just  now,  I'm  afraid  of  love.  I  hope  I  shall 
never  love  any  one  again.  And  as  for  marriage, 
that's  quite  out  of  the  question." 

"Well,  I  must  be  content  with  that,  I  suppose," 
he  said,  smiling. 

What  a  child  she  was  still,  with  a  child's  unrea- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  25 

soning  petulance.  A  child,  too,  that  had  been  most 
cruelly  and  savagely  hurt. 

He  lifted  her  hands  one  after  the  other  to  his 
lips  and  kissed  them  reverently.  Then  he  looked 
steadily  into  her  eyes. 

"One  of  these  days,  dear  Jill  .  .  .  "he  said. 

He  left  the  room  so  silently  she  hardly  realised 
that  he  had  gone.  One  of  these  days  .  .  .  one  of 
these  days.  .  .  .  What  a  silly  thing  to  say  I  How 
could  Paul  and  loan  both  be  so  stupid  as  to  care  for 
her — to  make  themselves  unhappy  about  her? 

"How  thankful  I  shall  be  to  get  away  from  every 
one,"  she  said  aloud  to  herself  as  she  heard  the  front 
door  slam.  "Especially  from  the  Pallants." 

But  even  as  she  framed  the  words  she  knew  that 
they  were  not  perfectly  sincere.  She  had  been  very 
glad  of  Paul  Pallant's  company  that  evening;  it 
had  disturbed  her,  but  it  had  undoubtedly  helped  her 
to  bear  her  embittered  loneliness. 

"And,  after  all,  it  might  have  been  Joan!"  she 
said,  with  a  little  wry  smile. 


CHAPTER  III 

LADY  PALLANT  wondered  why  both  her  son  and 
daughter  seemed  so  nervous  and  pre-occupied 
that  night  at  dinner.  Joan  in  particular  had  red 
eyes  and  wore  a  slightly  plaintive  and  injured  ex- 
pression. She  ate  little,  and  the  meal  was  proceed- 
ing in  silence  when  this  fact  of  his  sister's  diminished 
appetite  obtruding  itself  upon  Paul,  he  made  a  re- 
mark which  suggested  a  clue  to  the  situation. 

"Starving,  Jo?"  he  said,  in  the  light  ironical  tone 
that  always  made  his  sister  flinch  and  turn  crimson. 
"That  won't  help  Gillian,  you  know!" 

At  the  mention  of  Gillian's  name  Lady  Pallant 
looked  up  from  her  delicate  dissection  of  a  chicken's 
wing. 

"Did  you  go  with  Gillian  to-day,  Joan?"  she  in- 
quired. She  was  a  handsome  woman  of  about  fifty, 
tall,  dark,  inclined  to  be  stout.  She  had  rather  an 
imperious  air,  and  was  the  moving  spirit  in  the 
household,  inspiring  both  respect  and  awe. 

"Yes,  mother,"  said  Joan  meekly. 

"I  told  you,"  said  Lady  Pallant,  "that  I  entirely 
disapproved  of  your  going  to  such  a  place — of  your 
being  seen  there  at  all!" 

She  had  lunched  out  herself,  and  so  had  been 
unaware  that  Paul  had  enjoyed  that  meal  at  home 
in  solitary  state. 

"Yes,  mother,"  said  Joan  again,  scarcely  knowing 
what  she  said. 

She  did  not  dare  look  up  and  meet  Paul's  bitter 
amused  eyes. 

"It  is  a  most  equivocal  position  for  a  young  girl," 
pursued  Lady  Pallant,  who,  having  had  her  sus- 
picions confirmed,  was  determined  not  to  allow  the 

26 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  27 

misdemeanour  to  pass  unrebuked;  "in  my  young 
days  it  would  not  have  been  at  all  comme  il  faut  for 
a  girl  to  be  seen  in  the  Divorce  Court  listening  to  a 
case." 

Joan  was  silent. 

"I  am  surprised  that  you  went  against  my  wishes 
in  the  matter.  In  the  future  I  shall  have  to  be 
more  particular  in  controlling  your  movements  since 
you  are  evidently  not  to  be  trusted.  I  must  say,  too, 
that  I  am  surprised  Gillian  allowed  it!" 

This  unexpected  attributing  of  the  blame  to  Mrs. 
Driscoll  aroused  Paul  from  his  silence.  He  looked 
up  sharply. 

"Speak  up,  Jo  I  Tell  mother  it  wasn't  Gillian's 
fault.  You  simply  insisted  upon  going,  didn't  you? 
You  would  go — she  didn't  want  you  a  little  bit!" 

His  anger  was  slightly  tinged  with  jealousy,  which 
made  him  speak  more  harshly  than  perhaps  he  in- 
tended. He  had  longed  passionately  to  be  with 
Gillian  in  that  evil  hour,  to  stand  by  her.  Every 
dictate  of  prudence  had  compelled  his  absence.  But 
in  the  spirit  had  he  not  been  by  her  side,  holding  her 
two  cold  little  hands  in  his,  even  as  he  had  held  them 
to-night?  .  .  . 

"No,  she  didn't  want  me,"  Joan  confessed;  "it 
wasn't  her  fault."  Remembering  the  humiliating 
manner  of  her  peremptory  dismissal  on  the  way 
home,  she  longed  to  ask  the  terrible  questions,  "Did 
she  tell  you  so,  Paul?  Did  she  say  she  hadn't  wanted 
me?"  But  she  shrank  from  the  inevitable  answer. 
Paul  was  not  in  the  mood  to  spare  her. 

"I  am  glad  that  Gillian  won  her  case,"  said  Lady 
Pallant.  "Of  course  she  behaved  very  foolishly 
and  imprudently.  To  shut  yourself  up  for  months 
and  months  and  refuse  to  see  people  is  not  the  way 
to  keep  your  husband." 

Paul's  eyes  flashed. 


28  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"Even  that  isn't  any  excuse  for  a  man  to  desert 
his  wife,  and  behave  in  the  caddish  way  Aylmer 
has  behaved  to  herl  I  always  said  he  was  a 
bounder." 

Joan  darted  a  grateful  look  from  misty  blue  eyes. 

"I  wonder  what  Gillian  will  do,"  continued  Lady 
Pallant.  "She  has,  fortunately,  plenty  of  money  of 
her  own.  And  then  Aylmer  will  be  compelled  to  pay 
her  the  usual  proportion  of  his  income." 

"If  I  were  Gillian  I  wouldn't  touch  a  farthing  of 
his  money,"  said  Paul;  "her  trustees  insisted  upon 
the  alimony — she  didn't  want  it  I" 

"I  am  accustomed,"  said  his  mother  dryly,  "to 
Joan's  exaggerated  partisanship  of  Gillian.  But 
from  you — Paul "  she  stopped  and  smiled. 

"Any  man  who  is  worth  his  salt  may  be  forgiven 
for  expressing  himself  strongly  on  the  subject  of  a 
woman  who  has  been  treated  as  Aylmer  has  treated 
her,"  he  retorted. 

Again  that  mute  rather  pathetic  glance  of  grati- 
tude from  Joan. 

Lady  Pallant  felt  the  implied  reproach  in  her 
son's  tone.  She  thought  to  herself:  "How  dread- 
fully upset  they  both  are  about  this  affair  of  Gil- 
lian's I"  She  observed  without  analysing;  recog- 
nised a  fact,  yet  exhibiting  no  desire  to  deduce  rea- 
sons for  it.  Hence  she  never  suspected  the  true  basis 
of  her  son's  defence  of  Gillian.  Mrs.  Driscoll  was 
her  cousin,  had  lived  in  her  house,  had  been  launched 
by  her  as  one  of  the  prettiest  debutantes  of  that  sea- 
son, had  met  Aylmer  under  her  roof,  and  had  been 
married  from  thence.  For  her  these  reasons  sufficed. 
She  had  not  the  remotest  knowledge  of  her  son's 
attitude  towards  Gillian.  .  .  . 

"I  wonder  what  she  will  do,"  said  Lady  Pallant 
after  a  pause,  during  which  neither  Paul  nor  Joan 
ventured  any  remark;  "do  you  know  what  her  plans 
are,  Joan?" 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  29 

"She  didn't  say,"  said  the  girl;  "she  didn't  talk 
much  to-day.  I  think  she  was  stunned.  She  wasn't 
like  herself.  It's  been  a  great  shock  to  her." 

"She  means  to  go  abroad  almost  at  once!"  said 
Paul.  He  betrayed  no  triumph  at  this  superior 
knowledge  of  Gillian's  plans.  Jealousy  touched 
Joan's  heart  with  its  knife,  causing  a  cold  sinking 
sensation.  Why  had  she  confided  in  Paul?  When 
had  he  seen  her?  Had  she  sent  for  him?  She  did 
not  dare  ask  these  questions  aloud.  Paul  had  always 
dominated  his  young  sister;  he  was  five  years  older 
than  she  was.  Her  attitude  towards  him  was  a 
curious  mingling  of  fear  and  reverence.  His  words 
could  strike  hard,  and  he  had  what  his  mother  called 
the  "Pallant  temper."  They  were  mutually  jealous 
of  each  other's  friendship  for  Gillian. 

"Abroad?  Alone?  How  unwise  I"  said  Lady 
Pallant.  "I  hope  she  does  not  intend  to  go  alone. 
Perhaps  she  means  to  take  a  friend." 

Paul  vouchsafed  no  further  information. 

"Perhaps  she  will  take  Deborah  Venning  with 
her,"  said  Lady  Pallant,  "they  were  always  such 
great  friends." 

"Deborah!"  Joan  uttered  the  name  below  her 
breath,  but  the  whisper  held  scorn.  "Jill  never  sees 
Deborah  now.  "I'm  sure  she  doesn't  care  for  her 
any  more  I" 

It  was  Paul's  turn  to  feel  astonished  at  his  sister's 
superior  knowledge  on  the  subject  of  this  quondam 
friendship.  It  reminded  him  of  Gillian's  sudden 
outburst  of  tears  this  evening  when  he  had  mentioned 
Miss  Venning's  name,  of  her  cryptic  utterance,  "I 
shouldn't  dream  of  taking  Deborah  Venning  with 
me!"  What  had  compassed  the  overthrowal  of 
Deborah  from  her  once  unassailable  position  as  Mrs. 
Driscoll's  greatest  friend?  What  did  Joan  know? 

"You  mean  you've  applied  for  the  post?"  he  said 
satirically,  as  if  with  deliberate  intent  to  wound.  It 


30  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

would  have  been  difficult  to  say  whose  nerves  had 
been  the  more  jarred  during  that  day  of  public  reck- 
oning. "You've  cut  Deborah  out — have  you,  Jo?" 
His  eyes  glinted  sword-like.  Joan's  fell  under  the 
glance;  she  bit  her  lip  as  if  she  were  trying  to  sup- 
press those  tears  that  had  threatened  all  the  evening. 
"But  she  won't  take  you,  my  dear!" 

"She  certainly  will  not!"  Lady  Pallant  exercised 
her  rare  authority.  Besides,  the  events  of  the  day 
justified  her.  "Joan  will  not  be  allowed  to  travel 
under  the  care  of  any  one  whose  name  has  been  made 
unfortunately  so  public.  A  woman — however  in- 
nocent— who  has  divorced  her  husband  is  not  the 
proper  chaperon  for  a  young  and  sheltered  girl. 
Joan  has  her  home  duties." 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,  mother,"  said  Paul,  "Gil- 
lian wouldn't  be  bothered  with  her.  She  wishes  for 
solitude.  She's  sick  of  humanity.  She  doesn't  even 
want  Joan — chose  extraordinaire !" 

Joan  suppressed  a  sob ;  her  throat  felt  dry.  Even 
Paul's  sarcasm  was  lost  in  the  unwelcome  news  he 
had  so  carelessly  conveyed.  Gillian  was  going 
abroad;  she  might  possibly  keep  her  destination  a 
secret.  And  she  was  a  bad  correspondent.  Life 
looked  blank  for  Joan;  home  duties  offered  but  a 
dismal  substitute  for  the  beautiful  presence  thus 
abruptly  and  decisively  withdrawn.  .  .  . 

"It  is  a  thousand  pities  her  aunts  have  absolutely 
no  hold  over  her,"  said  Lady  Pallant,  reflecting  upon 
the  undesirability  of  a  young  woman  possessing  suffi- 
cient money  to  gratify  any  imprudent  whim  that 
might  suggest  itself.  "It  is  a  wretched  business," 
she  added. 

Dinner  was  at  an  end.  Joan  followed  her  mother 
out  of  the  room,  a  demure  crushed  figure.  The  two 
hours  in  the  drawing-room  still  lay  before  her,  and 
until  they  were  over  she  would  not  be  free  to  seek 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  31 

her  own  room  and  indulge  in  those  long-repressed 
tears.  Lady  Pallant  would  not  have  permitted  a 
premature  withdrawal.  She  held  that  it  was  im- 
prudent to  relax  a  disciplinary  hold  in  little  things. 
Only  illness  absolved  her  daughter  from  a  punctual 
appearance  at  all  meals,  and  at  stated  hours  in  the 
drawing-room.  And  to-night  there  was  less  chance 
than  ever  of  evading  that  unwritten  law.  Joan  had 
committed  a  definite  act  of  rebellion  in  accompany- 
ing Gillian,  and  for  some  days  at  least,  until  the 
impression  had  a  little  worn  off,  she  knew  that  the 
bit  would  inevitably  be  tightened,  and  that  it  behoved 
her  to  be  careful  of  her  conduct  in  little  things.  She 
took  some  embroidery  and  began  to  sew,  but  her 
eyes  were  brimming  over  with  tears.  Why  had 
Gillian  made  up  her  mind  to  go  abroad?  Why  had 
she  never  told  her  of  her  intention?  She  had  the 
feeling  that  Gillian  was  slipping  away  from  her. 
.  .  .  And  Paul  knew.  She  must  have  told  Paul. 

Paul  did  not  join  them.  They  heard,  as  they  sat 
there,  the  front  door  slam,  a  signal  that  informed 
them  he  had  gone  out  to  his  club.  Devoutly  Joan 
wished  that  she,  too,  had  a  club  which  could  swallow 
her  up  nightly  during  that  dreaded  two  hours  be- 
tween dinner  and  bedtime.  She  envied  Paul  his 
absolute  liberty,  his  freedom  from  all  petty  tyran- 
nies and  restraints.  Above  all  she  longed  to  be  free 
— free  that  she  might  go  even  now  to  Gillian.  .  .  . 
The  thought  was  such  a  daring  one  that  it  brought 
the  colour  to  her  cheeks.  It  was  followed  quickly 
by  another.  What  if  Paul  had  gone  to  see  Gillian 
now — instead  of  seeking  refuge  in  his  club? 

Lady  Pallant's  thoughts  were  also  concentrated 
upon  Mrs.  Driscoll.  She  did  not  quite  share  her 
children's  admiration  for  Gillian;  she  considered  her 
careless  and  imprudent.  Nor  did  she  approve  of 
her  influence  over  Joan,  although  it  could  not  be 


32  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

clearly  proved  from  what  Paul  had  said  that  she 
had  persuaded  Joan  to  accompany  her  to  the  Law 
Courts.  He  had  warmly  contradicted  the  assertion, 
and  Joan  had  reluctantly  agreed.  Her  daughter's 
disobedience  had  owed  nothing  to  Gillian.  In  future 
she  herself  must  exercise  more  authority,  Lady  Pal- 
lant  reflected  as  she  glanced  once  at  Joan's  meek 
bent  head.  In  Gillian's  absence  this  would  be  easier. 
But  she  must  see  Gillian  before  she  went.  She  must 
warn  her  of  the  difficulties,  the  temptations  of  her 
position.  A  young  and  pretty  woman  who  had  di- 
vorced her  husband  possessed  a  dangerous  independ- 
ence. She  would  meet  with  admiration  and  pity 
from  men,  with  blame  and  often  contempt  from 
women.  There  were  always  people  ready  to  blame 
a  wife,  however  innocent,  who  had  been  compelled 
to  divorce  her  husband,  especially  when  the  hus- 
band was  such  a  brilliant  and  popular  figure,  the 
writer  of  such  amazingly  clever  poetry  and  plays. 
Lady  Pallant  had  never  liked  Aylmer,  though  she 
had  felt  flattered  when  he  came  to  see  her,  and  she 
was  an  admirer  of  his  dramatic  work.  She  was 
afraid  that  Gillian  had  not  been  quite  the  right  wife 
for  him.  Authors  were  a  race  apart.  She  thought 
of  Shelley,  of  Byron.  .  .  .  Genius  did  not  always 
make  for  domestic  happiness.  A  seeking  for  inspira- 
tion seemed  to  tempt  persons  thus  endowed  into 
fortuitous  flirtation.  "She's  absolutely  necessary 
to  my  work,"  Aylmer  had  informed  her  when  he 
first  came  to  discuss  his  engagement  to  Gillian.  At 
the  time  Lady  Pallant  had  regarded  the  utterance  as 
a  piece  of  monstrous  egotism.  Cynically  she  im- 
agined that  when  Gillian  failed  him,  the  essential 
inspiration  was  sought  elsewhere.  She  could  not 
hold  her  entirely  free  from  blame.  Absorbed  in  her 
child,  and  then  in  the  loss  of  that  child,  she  had 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  33 

doubtless  proved  increasingly  unappreciative  of  his 
work.  It  never  occurred  to  Lady  Pallant  that  De- 
borah Venning  had  been  to  blame — Deborah,  who 
was  so  little  seen  in  London  now,  who  lived  in  the 
country,  devoting  herself  to  her  garden  and  her  old 
invalid  father.  There  had  never  been  a  word  said 
against  Deborah  Venning.  .  .  . 

Lady  Pallant  ordered  fhe  car  at  a  quarter  past 
ten  on  the  following  morning,  an  unusually  early 
hour  for  her  to  leave  the  house.  She  drove  at  once 
to  Kensington,  to  catch  Gillian  before  she  went  out, 
as  she  expressed  it.  She  was  so  successful  that  Gil- 
lian had  not  even  begun  her  toilette.  She  had,  how- 
ever, finished  her  breakfast,  and  was  in  bed,  read- 
ing the  newspapers,  of  which  she  had  ordered  about 
a  dozen.  In  all  the  illustrated  ones  there  were  pic- 
tures of  herself;  old  presentments  raked  up  from 
that  remote  epoch  four  years  ago,  when  her  wed- 
ding had  made  a  little  sensation.  The  Daily  Kodak 
alone  showed  her  as  she  had  been  yesterday  when 
she  had  lifted  her  veil  to  give  evidence.  Inset  was 
a  picture  of  Aylmer,  arrestingly  handsome. 

If  Lady  Pallant  felt  at  all  shocked  at  the  nature 
of  Gillian's  occupation  she  did  not  say  so. 

Propped  up  by  downy  pillows  delicately  embroid- 
ered and  monogrammed,  and  wearing  a  white  silk 
wrap  elaborately  trimmed  with  real  lace  and  a 
boudoir  cap  to  match,  Mrs.  Driscoll  looked  ex- 
tremely young  and  pretty.  She  was  feeling  more 
cheerful  to-day.  Preparations  for  her  journey  were 
proceeding  rapidly;  the  telephone  at  her  elbow  was 
in  constant  use,  and  these  minor  activities  were  driv- 
ing from  her  mind  the  unpleasant  happenings  of  yes- 
terday. She  had  slept  well,  and  a  quiet  night  had 
given  her  fresh  courage.  She  could  look  at  the 


34  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

world  this  morning  and  not  hate  it  with  such  savage 
bitterness.  And  there  was  balm,  too,  in  the  remem- 
brance of  Paul's  visit,  Paul's  words.  .  .  . 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  not  to  be  up,  Cousin  Janet," 
she  said,  putting  up  a  white  cheek  to  be  kissed. 
"Just  look  at  these.  I  feel  like  the  prisoner  in  a 
murder  case!"  She  indicated  the  confused  heap  of 
papers  of  which  some  of  the  sheets  had  slidden  upon 
the  floor. 

Lady  Pallant's  mien  was  mysteriously  funereal, 
as  if  she  had  come  to  offer  sympathy  for  a  recent 
bereavement. 

"My  dear!  I  lost  no  time  I  So  shocking! — And 
after  only  four  years!" 

Gillian  coloured.  She  would  have  preferred  not 
to  discuss  the  subject  seriously  at  this  early  hour. 
But  Lady  Pallant's  manner  indicated  that  she  con- 
sidered Mrs.  Driscoll's  attitude  deplorably  frivo- 
lous. 

"People  seem  to  have  lost  all  sense  of  the  indis- 
solubility  of  marriage — of  the  holiness  of  the  tie!" 
she  continued  firmly.  "The  obligations,  the  duties, 
the  responsibilities  involved!  One  sees  it  over  and 
over  again.  And  there  is  such  a  disposition  in  these 
days  to  treat  the  culprits  lightly — to  receive  them 
again!" 

"Aylmer's  books  will  have  a  larger  sale  than  ever, 
and  people  will  simply  flock  to  see  his  plays,"  said 
Gillian  bitterly. 

Lady  Pallant  did  not  reply  to  this  remark,  though 
she  thought  it  more  than  likely.  She  merely  said: 
"Paul  tells  me  you  are  thinking  of  going  abroad." 

"Yes,  I'm  going  on  Saturday  if  I  can  get  ready," 
said  Gillian.  "I  am  giving  up  the  flat.  I  shall  be 
away  a  long  time,"  she  added. 

"I  hope,"  said  Lady  Pallant,  "that  you  are  not 
thinking  of  going  alone." 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  35 

"Yes,  Cousin  Janet.     I'm  going  quite  alone." 

"But  is  that  quite  wise,  my  dear?  A  very  young 
woman — and  in  your  unhappily  most  unfortunate 
position !" 

"I  admit  my  youth  and  my  unfortunate  position, 
but  I  feel  I  really  must  think  a  little  of  my  nerves. 
Cousin  Janet — you've  never  been  in  the  divorce 
court " 

"My  dear — I  trust  not,  indeed!"  cried  Lady  Pal- 
lant,  holding  up  restraining  hands.  "You  shock 
me  inexpressibly!" 

"So  you  can't  have  any  idea  how  dreadfully  stren- 
uous it  is,"  pursued  Gillian  with  imperturbable  calm- 
ness. "I  felt  ten  years  older  last  night.  My 
nerves " 

"Nerves!"  said  Lady  Palant.  "Duty  should 
come  before  nerves." 

Gillian  wondered  if  this  solemn  dictum  held  as 
much  sense  as  sound. 

"Italy  will  distract  me,"  said  Mrs.  Driscoll.  "I 
have  never  been  there  since  I  was  married,  and  it 
was  never  any  fun  going  about  with  my  aunts.  They 
were  always  so  horribly  shocked  at  what  they  called 
foreign  ways.  I'm  sure  I  shall  simply  love  it  now — 
alone  and  free — like  this!" 

"Yes,  but  you  can't  stay  in  Italy  for  ever,"  said 
Lady  Pallant,  "four  or  five  months  perhaps — but 
even  in  June  it  is  often  unbearably  hot.  I  hope  you 
will  come  back  in  May!" 

"I  shan't  make  any  plans,"  said  Gillian,  leaning 
lazily  back  on  the  pillows  and  looking  at  her  cousin 
through  her  long  veiling  lashes.  "It  will  be  so  deli- 
cious just  wandering  about  and  seeing  all  the  charm- 
ing places  one  knows  so  well  from  picture  post- 
cards!" 

"I  dislike  the  thought  of  your  staying  about  at 
hotels  alone.  You  are  so  young  and  people  are  sure 


36  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

to  talk — and  then  this  unfortunate  business  has  been 
so  very  notorious — Aylmer  being  such  a  well-known 
man  and  all !  My  dear,  I  feel  you  will  be  the  prey 
of  all  kinds  of  horrible  unprincipled  people — I  can't 
bear  to  think  of  it." 

"Oh,  you  musn't  be  anxious  about  me,  Cousin 
Janet,"  said  Gillian  earnestly. 

"Paul  dislikes  the  idea  almost  as  much  as  I  do. 
He  didn't  say  so  in  so  many  words,  but  I  could 
tell  from  his  manner  when  we  were  discussing  it  at 
dinner  last  night.  And  a  mother  always  knows 
what  is  passing  in  the  minds  of  her  children  I" 

Gillian  suppressed  a  smile. 

"And  poor  Joan  is  simply  miserable  at  the  pros* 
pect  of  losing  you  1" 

"Dear  Joan  .  .  ."  murmured  Gillian  without 
enthusiasm. 

"Of  course  I  couldn't  think  of  letting  her  go 
with  you.  That  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  came 
to  see  you  to-day — to  beg  you  not  to  suggest  any 
such  thing!" 

"I  should  never  have  dreamed  of  suggesting  it," 
said  Gillian. 

"I  know  you  will  forgive  me  if  I  seem  unkind — 
but  I  have  such  imperative  reasons  for  not  wishing 
her  to  go,"  said  Lady  Pallant. 

"But  I  wouldn't  take  Joan  for  the  world  1"  said 
Gillian,  opening  her  eyes  very  wide  at  this — to  her — 
preposterous  suggestion.  "I  mean — I  want  to  be 
alone,  .  .  .  that's  such  an  immense  attraction.  .  .  . 
I  couldn't  have  a  girl  on  my  hands.  It's  such  a — 
a  responsibility,"  she  added  lamely. 

"Quite  so,"  said  Lady  Pallant;  "I  was  sure  you 
would  understand.  Joan  is  a  very  good  girl,  but 
she  requires — like  all  young  girls — vigilance  and  dis- 
cipline. It  would  be  too  heavy  a  burden  for  your 
young  shoulders !"  Lady  Pallant  snatched  with  sus- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  37 

picious  eagerness  at  this  solution.     "Joan's  upset, 
of  course — she  is  so  fond  of  you." 

"She  musn't  miss  the  season,  though,"  said 
Gillian. 

"I  was  wondering  if  you  couldn't  persuade  Miss 
Venning  to  go  with  you,"  continued  Lady  Pallant 
unsuspiciously.  "She  is  devoted  to  you,  I  am  sure 
you  have  only  to  suggest  it." 

"Ask  Deborah  to  leave  her  bulbs  in  February?" 
Gillian's  voice  was  strained  and  almost  hoarse  with 
the  effort  she  made  to  steady  it,  but  Lady  Pallant 
observed  only  the  light  gaiety  of  the  words. 

"A  friend  in  need  is  so  much  more  important  than 
a  bulb !"  she  pronounced  after  a  moment's  reflec- 
tion. 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  the  gardening  soul,"  said 
Gillian. 

She  lay  back  for  a  moment  closing  her  eyes 
wearily.  The  little  action  was  not  lost  on  Lady 
Pallant,  who  regarded  her  compassionately.  What 
a  child  she  looked,  when  all  was  said  and  done — 
scarcely  older  than  Joan.  To  have  one's  life 
wrecked  at  twenty-two  years !  What  incredible  cru- 
elty! Impulsively,  for  she  was  not  a  demonstrative 
woman,  she  leaned  forward  and  put  her  hand  on 
Gillian's  fragile  one.  It  would  be  easier  to  talk 
to  her,  to  sympathise,  if  only  Gillian  would  show 
some  little  sign  that  she  felt  the  seriousness  of  her 
position.  Instead,  she  seemed  to  resent  talking 
about  it.  She  was  actually  looking  forward  to  that 
free  time  in  Italy  with  zest  and  eagerness.  Lady 
Pallant  had  come  to-day  with  the  intention  of  hav- 
ing what  her  daughter  would  have  called  a  "heart- 
to-heart"  talk,  but  Gillian's  attitude  made  such  a 
thing  inconceivable. 

"I  do  hope  it  won't  be  rough  on  Saturday,"  said 
Gillian  suddenly,  opening  her  eyes;  "do  you  think 


3 8  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

this  wind  will  have  gone  down  by  then?  I  have 
such  a  stupid,  chattering  horror  of  the  Channel 
even  when  it  is  fairly  smooth.  Of  course  at  this 
time  of  year  one  must  expect  storms." 

Lady  Pallant  had  no  views  as  to  the  probable 
state  of  the  Channel  on  Saturday;  she  wondered, 
indeed,  that  this  unimportant  side-issue  could  thus 
prospectively  affect  Gillian. 

"I  cannot  say,"  she  remarked;  "you  may  of  course 
have  it  very  smooth.  But  after  a  storm  there  is  so 
often  a  ground  swell  which  is  almost  as  disagree- 
able !  I  wish  you  were  not  going." 

"Oh,  but  I'm  longing  to  get  away.  I  feel  I  shall 
so  enjoy  being  an  independent  tourist — not  even  a 
personally  conducted  one !" 

"Paul,"  said  Lady  Pallant,  reverting  to  her  for- 
mer objection,  "is  quite  extraordinarily  upset  at  the 
idea!"  She  paused  for  a  moment.  "I  wish  Paul 
would  marry.  He  is  growing  so  irritable.  The 
way  he  caught  Joan  up  at  dinner  last  night  was 
quite  painful.  They  used  always  to  be  so  devoted 
to  each  other.  I  hoped  at  one  time  that  he  would 
take  a  fancy  to  Lady  Ferner's  younger  daughter — 
the  pretty  fair  one  who  is  a  friend  of  Joan's,  too. 
I  asked  her  to  dine  constantly  when  he  was  with 
us  for  his  long  leave,  but  he  never  took  the  slightest 
notice  of  her.  I  should  like  them  both  to  marry, 
of  course,  but  it's  different  for  a  girl.  However,  if  a 
young  good-looking  man  doesn't  marry  when  he  has 
plenty  of  means  it  1*5  his  own  fault,  isn't  it?" 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Gillian  nervously.  She 
was  not  quite  sure  if  this  speech  were  intended  as 
a  deliberate  warning,  a  cry  of  "Hands  off!"  ad- 
dressed to  herself. 

"I  should  welcome  any  girl  of  suitable  age  and 
birth,"  continued  Lady  rallant,  "no  matter  what 
her  fortune  was.  I  should  be  the  last  person  to  put 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  39 

any  obstacles  in  his  way.  But  Paul  seems  quite  blind 
where  girls  are  concerned — sometimes  I  think  he 
almost  dislikes  them.  That's  the  worst  of  the  Army 
— if  a  man  really  cares  about  his  career  it  seems  to 
swallow  up  all  his  time,  giving  him  leisure  for  no 
other  interests." 

Gillian  felt  somewhat  relieved  at  this  proof  of 
Lady  Pallant's  ignorance  both  as  to  the  nature  of 
her  son's  interests  and  the  state  of  his  heart. 

While  she  murmured  a  half-audible  reply,  Lady 
Pallant,  laying  her  hand  again  on  Gillian's,  said 
abruptly : 

"My  dear  child,  I  cannot  go  away  without  telling 
you  how  very  sorry  I  am  for  you.  So  very,  very 
sorry!  ..." 

There  was  a  hint  of  softening  in  her  large,  well- 
moulded  features  and  fine  dark  eyes. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  Cousin  Janet,"  said  Gillian 
flushing.  "I  mean  .  .  .  I'm  sure  you  are." 

"Such  a  terribly  difficult  position  for  you,  and  at 
your  age,  too.  So  many  girls  of  your  age  are  still 
living  in  the  shelter  of  their  own  homes.  And  it's 
not  as  if  you  were  a  widow,  my  dear,  and  could 
hope  in  course  of  time  to  make  a  second  marriage." 
She  paused  now,  regarding  Gillian  as  if  to  watch 
the  effect  of  these  words. 

Mrs.  Driscoll  began  anew  to  wonder  if  Lady 
Pallant  were  in  such  complete  ignorance  as  she 
had  supposed  on  the  subject  of  Paul. 

"A  second  marriage,  dear  Cousin  Janet?  What 
a  simply  horrible  idea  I"  She  tried  to  laugh,  but 
the  sound  was  strangled  in  her  throat. 

Lady  Pallant  breathed  a  faint  sigh  of  relief. 

"Ah,  I  hoped  you  would  agree  with  me  there. 
Our  dear  vicar,  Mr.  Reynolds,  is  entirely  opposed 
to  divorced  persons  re-marrying,  even  the  one 
known  as  the  innocent  party.  We  were  having  a 


40  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

long  talk  about  you,  my  dear,  only  two  days  ago." 

"Dear  Cousin  Janet — I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  dis- 
cuss me  even  with  a  clergyman!" 

"I  always  go  to  him  for  advice  and  counsel," 
said  Lady  Pallant,  drawing  herself  up  with  a  slight 
stiffening  of  the  spine.  "I  find  him  particularly 
helpful,  and  I  wish  Paul  and  Joan  did  not  dislike 
him  so  much,  for  it  is  so  often  on  their  account  that 
I  am  obliged  to  consult  him.  I  assure  you,  that 
to  be  the  mother  of  a  grown-up  son  and  daughter 
in  these  days  of  relaxed  parental  discipline  is  an 
agonising  responsibility;  one  feels  in  a  perpetual 
state  of  apprehension.  •  Paul  is  quite  out  of  my  con- 
trol— I  suppose  that  is  only  natural  when  a  man  has 
his  income  in  his  own  hands.  Joan — I  have  been 
a  little  anxious  about  Joan  of  late.  For  instance," 
her  voice  dropped  sympathetically,  "she  insisted 
upon  accompanying  you  to  the  Law  Courts  yester- 
day. Very  sweet  and  dear  of  her  and  all  that,  but 
I  do  feel  that  she  oughtn't  to  have  gone  against 
my  definitely  expressed  wishes.  I  was  very  vexed 
with  her.  I  feel  very  strongly  that  a  young  girl 
should  not  be  seen  in  such  places.  It  is  so  .  .  .  so 
soiling.  Joan  does  not  often  disobey  me." 

Gillian's  mouth  opened  convulsively  as  if  she  were 
trying  to  repress  a  smile.  Then  she  said: 

"Oh,  I'm  dreadfully  sorry  she  disobeyed  you.  I 
didn't  want  her  to  come  at  all — I  felt  you  would 
disapprove.  It  was  quite  her  own  idea.  I  wasn't 
in  the  mood  for  any  company." 

"That  was  just  what  Paul  seemed  to  think,  and 
he  as  good  as  told  Joan  so  last  night."  It  did  occur 
to  her  then  to  wonder  how  Paul  had  come  to  acquire 
such  an  accurate  knowledge  of  Gillian's  mood  upon 
that  famous  occasion.  "He  almost  inferred  that 
she  had  been  very  tactless  to  inflict  herself  upon  you 
at  all.  But  Paul  was  in  a  very  odd  mood  last  night 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  41 

— something  seemed  to  have  upset  him  completely. 
I  do  so  dislike  that  bickering  at  meals.  When  they 
were  children  I  never  permitted  it!" 

Gillian  offered  no  solution  as  to  the  reason  of 
Paul's  ill-temper.  She  had  a  feeling  that  she  must 
keep  his  secret,  especially  as  she  was  now  convinced 
that  his  mother's  suspicions  were  aroused,  and  that 
she  was  trying  to  approach  the  matter  by  side-roads 
and  perhaps  surprise  Gillian  into  a  confession  or  at 
least  a  denial. 

Mrs.  Driscoll  gave  a  little  wriggle  of  impatience; 
she  was  annoyed  to  find  herself,  thanks  to  the  Pal- 
lant  family,  unwittingly  involved  in  fresh  complica- 
tions. She  longed  to  abuse  Paul  and  Joan  openly 
to  their  mother  for  their  undesired  friendship  and 
devotion;  she  wanted  to  say  that  it  was  none  of 
her  seeking.  .  .  . 

"Well,  my  dear,  I've  been  worrying  you  about 
my  own  affairs,  and  I  really  came  to  talk  about 
yours!"  Lady  Pallant  said  this  quite  brightly,  and 
with  apparently  no  ulterior  signification  of  interests 
running  parallel  and  mutually  involved.  "And  I 
really  must  be  going.  It  is  the  day  I  have  my  hands 
manicured.  Come  and  dine  with  us  to-morrow, 
won't  you?  Quite  en  famille  of  course.  I  am 
sure  you  won't  want  to  meet  people  just  now!" 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Cousin  Janet,  but  I  don't  really 
feel  like  going  anywhere." 

The  thought  of  meeting  Paul  with  this  secret  be- 
tween them  alarmed  her. 

"Joan  will  never  forgive  me  if  I  fail  to  persuade 
you.  Really — just  this  once.  A  kind  of  fare- 
well—" 

Gillian  reluctantly  agreed.  She  hoped  that  Paul 
might  have  an  engagement;  he  did  not  often  dine 
at  home. 

"I'm  afraid  we  shan't  have  Paul — he  talked  of 


42  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

going  to  see  this  new  dancer  with  Captain  Grant. 
Do  you  know,  Gillian,  I  sometimes  fancy  that  Cap- 
tain Grant  is  taken  with  Joan?" 

"What  an  excellent  ideal"  responded  Gillian 
heartily. 

She  felt  intensely  relieved  at  the  probable  ab- 
sence of  Paul.  She  could  almost  look  forward  to 
a  dull  evening  spent  alone  with  Lady  Pallant  and 
Joan. 

"I  can  leave  early,"  she  thought  to  herself, 


CHAPTER  IV 

LADY  PALLANT  was  sitting  alone  in  the  drawing- 
room  a  few  minutes  before  eight  on  the  fol- 
lowing evening.  The  room  was  spacious,  and  on  its 
pale  walls  there  hung  some  fine  pictures  and  etch- 
ings. Blue  was  the  predominant  colour  in  the  carpet 
and  hangings  and  in  a  beautiful  old  screen. 

Lady  Pallant  sat  very  upright  in  a  high  chair,  for 
she  belonged  to  a  generation  to  whom  lolling  had 
been  forbidden,  and  she  reaped  the  benefit  of  this 
education,  for  her  back  was  as  straight  as  ever, 
and  the  carriage  of  her  head  almost  imperial.  Her 
black  satin  dress  fitted  tightly,  and  she  wore  a  lovely 
string  of  pearls  round  her  still  white  and  plump 
throat.  She  was  idly  turning  the  pages  of  Punch 
when  the  door  opened  and  her  son  came  into  the 
room. 

The  black  and  white  effect  produced  always  by 
his  smooth  jet-black  hair  and  white  face  was  en- 
hanced by  the  conventional  evening  dress  which  was 
peculiarly  becoming  to  him.  His  slight,  spare  figure 
under  middle  height  was  boyish-looking,  but  there 
was  no  trace  of  the  boy  in  his  grave,  rigid  face, 
with  the  smouldering  passionate  eyes,  the  com- 
pressed firm  mouth.  Lady  Pallant's  one  regret  was 
that  she  had  not  bestowed  upon  her  son  her  own 
inches.  He  was  small  for  a  man,  being  slightly 
shorter  than  his  sister,  which  was  an  eternal  grief 
to  him. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  were  dining  out  to-night  with 
Captain  Grant,  Paul,"  she  said,  a  little  disturbed  by 
his  unexpected  appearance. 

"No,  mother,"  he  answered  shortly. 

"I   heard  you   talking  about  going  to   see   this 

43 


44  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

new  dancer  with  the  unpronounceable  name,"  she 
said. 

He  frowned  slightly.  "As  you  know,  I'm  not  very 
keen  about  seeing  new  dancers." 

She  paused,  and  laid  Punch  down  on  a  table  be- 
side her. 

"I'm  expecting  Gillian  to  dinner.  Did  Joan  tell 
you?" 

"She  said  something  about  it,"  said  Paul  care- 
lessly. 

He  walked  across  the  room  and  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  fire,  his  face  turned  from  the  electric 
light  that  burned  carefully  shaded  in  some  old  gilt 
sconces. 

"I  told  Gillian  we  should  be  quite  dans  I'intimite," 
she  said. 

He  did  not  reply.  His  eyes  wandered  restlessly 
round  the  room.  Within  him  there  was  a  great 
tumult.  Since  he  had  visited  her  at  her  flat  on  the 
evening  of  the  divorce  he  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Dris- 
coll.  It  would  be  safe  to  say  that  she  had  scarcely 
been  out  of  his  thoughts.  His  love  for  her  during 
these  last  days  had  become  almost  overwhelming 
in  its  fierce  intensity.  And  with  its  growth  the  fear 
that  she  did  not  love — could  never  love  him — had 
increased  in  proportionate  intensity. 

Lady  Pallant  was  just  beginning  to  wonder  why 
he  was  so  unusually  silent  and  glum  when  the  door 
opened  and  Joan  came  into  the  room.  She  wore 
a  loose,  flowing  tea-gown,  shell-pink  in  colour.  It 
was  picturesque  and  becoming,  but  decidedly  outre. 
Her  mother  glanced  at  it  with  visible  disapproval. 

"My  dear  Joan,  where  on  earth  did  you  get  that 

garment?     You  know  how  much   I   dislike   those 
oppy  things.     You  look  like  a  sack." 

"Anyhow,  I'm  a  slim  sack,"  said  Joan,  looking 
down  at  her  own  slightness.  She  thought  the  full, 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  45 

soft  thing  hung  gracefully  about  her  tall,  slim  per- 
son. Besides,  had  she  not  copied  it  from  a  French 
model  belonging  to  Gillian?  She  wore  at  her  breast 
a  great  piece  of  green  jade  set  in  silver. 

"I  shall  certainly  speak  to  Madame  Marthe  about 
your  clothes.  I  won't  have  you  wear  these  extraor- 
dinary things!" 

Joan  bit  her  lip,  but  continued  to  look  at  herself 
approvingly  in  the  glass.  She  wondered  if  she  were 
nearly  as  pretty  as  Gillian.  Captain  Grant  had  told 
her  that  they  could  not  be  compared,  but  of  course 
he  was  prejudiced  in  her  favour,  and  she  did  not  in 
the  least  believe  this  tribute  to  her  own  charms. 
His  admiration — the  first  she  had  enjoyed — was 
giving  her  a  new  conceit  in  her  personal  appear- 
ance. She  had  thought  lately  a  great  deal  about 
her  clothes  and  the  most  becoming  way  of  dressing 
her  hair;  she  had  even  practised  charming  languor- 
ous attitudes  in  front  of  the  long  pier-glass  in  her 
bedroom !" 

"Do  not  let  us  be  found  squabbling  when  Gillian 
comes!"  said  Paul  hastily,  and  with  some  show  of 
irritability. 

Gillian's  arrival  put  a  stop  to  any  further  polemic. 
As  she  came  in  she  seemed  to  bring  with  her  an 
atmosphere  of  fresh  fragrance,  born  of  the  soft 
winter  night  which  in  its  humidity  seemed  already 
to  hint  of  opening  buds  and  early  flowers.  Paul 
thought  she  looked  beautiful  in  a  soft  dress  of  iron- 
grey  chiffon  that  seemed  to  envelop  her  like  a  rain- 
cloud,  and  whose  hue  matched  her  eyes.  Joan  im- 
mediately flung  her  arms  round  her,  crying: 

"Darling  Jill!  How  awfully  sweet  of  you  to 
come !" 

Paul  flashed  a  look  of  half-jealous  disdain  at  his 
sister. 

"For  goodness'   sake,   Joan,   don't  throttle   Gil- 


46  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

lian!"  he  said,  with  exasperation  in  his  voice. 
"You're  behaving  like  a  boisterous  school-girl  I" 

Joan  hung  back,  flushed,  almost  tearful,  ashamed 
of  her  own  impetuous  boldness.  Her  lips  trembled. 
To  be  snubbed  in  front  of  Gillian  gave  her  sharp 
pain. 

"Don't  listen  to  him,  Joan,"  said  Gillian  kindly. 
She  laid  her  hand  almost  tenderly  upon  the  girl's 
shoulder.  She  could  hurt  people  herself  with  sharp 
gibe  if  necessary,  but  she  did  not  like  to  see  other 
people  doing  the  hurting.  Joan's  misty  blue  eyes 
expressed  oceans  of  adoring  gratitude. 

"He  looks  a  horrid  cross  boy  to-night,"  added 
Gillian. 

Paul  laughed;  his  good-humour  was  restored. 
"When  I  was  trying  to  save  you,  top,"  he  said. 
Her  tranquil  sweetness  soothed  his  jarred  over- 
wrought nerves.  He  would  have  given  worlds  and 
worlds  to  put  his  arms  round  her  as  Joan  had  done, 
only  much  more  gently,  with  indeed  an  infinite  ten- 
derness— and  lay  his  lips  to  hers.  The  thought  was 
so  strong  in  his  mind  that  he  wondered  if  in  some 
strange  unexplained  manner  it  could  have  commu- 
nicated itself  to  her  in  all  its  mad  longing. 

They  went  down  to  dinner.  The  table,  small  and 
square,  looked  like  a  little  white  oasis  in  the  middle 
of  that  great  room  with  its  fine  dark  panelling.  It 
was  set  with  four  places,  and  it  looked  both  inti- 
mate and  sociable.  Lady  Pallant  disliked  shouting 
to  people  across  yards  of  mahogany.  And  with  four 
people,  too,  the  conversation  must  necessarily  be 
general. 

Paul  sat  opposite  to  his  mother;  Gillian  and  Joan 
faced  each  other.  The  meal  proceeded  smoothly. 
Lady  Pallant  knew  all  about  her  food,  for  her  late 
husband  had  been  a  celebrated  gourmet,  and  her 
schooling  in  this  department  had  been  rigorous  and 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  47 

severe.  She  hoped  sometimes  that  Paul  dined  at 
home  more  often  in  consequence.  Joan  was  her 
despair.  She  would  only  eat  diminishing  unwhole- 
some things;  she  had  the  very  young  girl's  ambi- 
tion to  be  extraordinarily  slight,  and  was  immensely 
proud  of  her  sylph-like  proportions,  revealed  rather 
than  concealed  by  the  condemned  tea-gown. 

To-night  Lady  Pallant  was  not  thinking  of  her 
daughter.  Joan  might  eat  or  leave  as  she  chose. 
Her  thoughts  were  concentrated  upon  Paul ;  she  was 
watching  him  covertly.  But  his  face  wore  no  sign 
of  emotion  or  interest.  He  talked  away  to  Gillian, 
snubbed  his  sister  occasionally  with  a  derisive  com- 
ment that  brought  the  quick  flush  to  her  cheek,  and 
ate  his  dinner  as  usual.  She  must  have  been  mis- 
taken as  to  the  cause  of  his  recent  ill-humour.  It 
could  have  nothing  to  do  with  Mrs.  Driscoll.  There 
was  nothing  in  his  manner,  cool  and  imperturbable, 
to  suggest  that  he  was  even  slightly  interested  in 
Gillian.  Her  anxiety  was  lulled  to  rest.  She  even 
forgot  how  disconcerted  she  had  felt  at  his  sudden 
appearance  just  before  dinner;  she  had  certainly 
heard  him  announce  his  intention  of  dining  with 
Captain  Grant.  Perhaps  the  plan  had  fallen 
through.  It  was  absurd  to  conjecture  from  such 
slender  premises  that  he  had  deliberately  renounced 
a  former  engagement  in  order  that  he  might  see 
his  cousin. 

Once  during  the  meal  when  he  administered  a  deli- 
cate snub  to  Joan,  Gillian  said,  smiling: 

"How  you  do  bicker — you  two !"  Her  look  of 
sympathy  was  not  lost  upon  poor  Joan,  who  glanced 
at  her  gratefully. 

"It's  only  lately,"  she  explained,  "that  Paul's 
taken  to  being  so  horrid  to  me !" 

"It's  only  lately,"  mocked  Paul,  "that  you've 
taken  to  being  so  uppish  and  behaving  in  this  inde- 


48  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

pendent  way,  just  as  if  you  were  your  own  mistress. 
Grant,"  his  eyes  shone,  "will  knock  all  that  nonsense 
out  of  you!" 

"Now — Paul,"  implored  Gillian. 

Joan  had  never  confided  in  her  about  Captain 
Grant,  and  the  mention  of  his  name  brought  a  scar- 
let flush  to  her  face.  It  was  cruel  of  Paul  to  allude 
to  him,  just  as  if  he  were  Joan's  accepted  lover, 
as  if  she  had  decided  to  give  him  the  right  to  "knock 
any  nonsense  out  of  her"  in  the  future. 

But  Gillian  divined  Paul's  motive.  It  lay  deep- 
rooted  in  a  subtle,  unacknowledged  jealousy,  fanned 
to-night  perhaps  by  her  own  obvious  partisanship 
of  Joan.  She  felt  at  the  moment  as  if  she  would  be 
inordinately  thankful  when  the  seas  divided  her 
from  the  Pallant  family.  He  was  still  jealous  be- 
cause Joan  had  accompanied  her  to  the  Law  Courts, 
had  occupied  that  position  by  her  side  which  he  had 
so  passionately  desired  for  himself.  Gillian  was 
the  only  person  present  who  understood  the  work- 
ing of  his  mind,  and  the  knowledge  irritated  her. 
What  right  had  he  to  be  jealous  of  his  sister,  or  of 
any  one  else  for  whom  she  showed  preference?  How 
had  he  dared,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  to  come 
the  other  evening  and  speak  to  her  of  his  love? 
She  was  present  to-night  just  to  show  him  how 
lightly,  how  carelessly,  she  estimated  that  love. 

"They're  always  quarrelling,"  said  Lady  Pallant. 
"I'm  only  sorry  they  are  both  too  old  to  be  sent  out 
of  the  room  when  they  begin!" 

She  glanced  severely  at  Joan.  Joan  could  be  very 
irritating. 

"We  are  all  on  edge  to-night,"  thought  Gillian. 
She  wished  there  had  been  other  people  present — 
people  who  did  not  belong  to  the  family,  and  who 
would  exercise  a  restraining  influence.  To  dine  dans 
I'intimite  with  one's  own  relations  was  never  an  un- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  49 

mixed  joy;  to-night  with  all  these  cross-currents  it 
was  a  more  than  usually  strenuous  experience. 

"I've  taken  my  ticket,"  she  said  suddenly.  "I  am 
to  start  at  eleven  on  Monday  and  go  to  Paris  for 
a  few  weeks.  Then  on  by  the  Simplon  into  Italy." 
Her  eyes  were  dreamy;  it  was  as  if  she  saw  herself 
travelling  swiftly  into  the  radiant  blue  and  gold  of 
an  Italian  spring.  "I  shall  get  everything  I  want 
in  Paris." 

Both  Joan  and  Paul  were  silent.  The  girl's  face 
was  consciously  sad;  the  man's  obstinately  grim. 
Lady  Pallant  was  beginning  to  think  it  wasn't  such 
a  bad  idea  of  Gillian's  to  go  away — right  away  for 
a  time.  Joan  was  showing  a  distinct  disposition  to 
imitate  her,  to  emulate  that  freedom  and  independ- 
ence; it  was  bad  for  her  to  witness  a  woman  so 
little  her  senior  enjoying  such  a  measure  of  liberty. 
"Jill  does  it — why  shouldn't  I?"  Lady  Pallant  had 
heard  that  remark  once  or  twice  lately  on  her  daugh- 
ter's lips,  and  Mrs.  Driscoll's  absence  would  at  any 
rate  silence  such  a  protest.  And  Paul?  .  .  .  Ah, 
that  was  where  her  real  anxiety  lay.  But  if  he  really 
had  any  fleeting  fancy  for  Gillian,  born  of  his  chival- 
rous pity  and  compassion  for  her  "life  awry,"  there 
was  no  remedy  like  the  severe  one  of  separation. 
A  wholesome  and  drastic  remedy  like  the  lopping 
off  of  a  limb  to  save  the  whole  body.  Lady  Pallant 
belonged  to  the  stern  old  school  of  heroic  treatment ; 
she  was  always  impatient  of  modern  palliatives  and 
soppy  compromise.  She  was  all  for  cutting  off  the 
offending  hand,  for  sharp  removal  of  the  mote.  She 
was  beginning  to  regard  Gillian's  project  in  a  new 
and  approving  light. 

For  there  was  danger  in  Gillian,  for  all  that  soft 
quietness,  that  inherent  gentleness  of  hers.  Lady 
Pallant  recalled  Aylmer  Driscoll's  brief  courtship — 
a  thing  of  flame,  sweeping  all  obstacles  aside,  en- 


50  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

gulfing  Gillian  in  the  vortex  of  its  passion.  And 
now  more  lovely  than  ever  she  claimed,  inarticu- 
lately it  is  true,  but  none  the  less  surely,  compas- 
sion from  the  sterner  sex.  They  would  see  in  her 
the  woman  whom  a  "swine,"  to  use  Paul's  own  ex- 
pression, had  treated  ignobly.  Aylmer  was  by  no 
means  popular  with  men;  he  had  the  latent  touch 
of  effeminacy  which  so  often  imbues  the  poet  and 
writer  unless  he  belongs  to  the  robust  school.  His 
conquests  had  always  been  in  feminine  fields.  Rec- 
ognising these  facts  with  her  astute  if  narrow  vision, 
Lady  rallant  decided  that  Gillian's  absence  from 
England  would  be,  under  the  circumstances,  provi- 
dential. Of  course  there  would  be  a  certain  amount 
to  put  up  with  from  Joan,  who  would  be  miserable 
at  losing  her  friend.  But  Joan  must  be  sacrificed 
on  the  altar  of  Paul's  welfare.  Mr.  Reynolds  had 
warmly  acquiesced  in  her  view  of  the  situation ;  had 
foreseen,  too,  the  peril  in  the  person  of  this  young 
and  beautiful  cousin  whose  intimate  friendship  with 
Joan  undoubtedly  constituted  a  sure  and  dangerous 
link  with  Joan's  brother.  .  .  . 

In  the  drawing-room  conversation  was  desultory. 
Lady  Pallant  fingered  the  pieces  of  a  jig-saw  puzzle. 
Joan  occasionally  went  over  to  the  table  and  fitted 
in  a  piece  with  a  triumphant  air  of  realised  inspira- 
tion. Gillian  and  Paul  sat  on  two  armchairs  at  the 
end  of  the  room  away  from  the  fire,  and  under  cover 
of  Joan's  spasmodic  playing  (for  she  was  restless 
to-night,  and  hovered  between  her  mother's  puzzle 
and  the  piano)  they  discoursed  together  in  low 
tones. 

"So  you're  really  going,"  he  said.  There  was 
no  sentimentality  in  his  tone,  only  a  kind  of  dis- 
dainful reproach.  "Any  idea  how  long  you'll  be 
away?" 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  51 

"I  thought — perhaps — six  months,"  she  said. 
"One  never  knows.  Business — or  the  aunts — might 
bring  me  back." 

"Less  than  that,"  he  suggested,  "ought  to  satisfy 
Mrs.  Grundy." 

"You  know  I  don't  care  about  Mrs.  Grundy." 

"Then  why  go  at  all?" 

"I'm  going  to  please  myself.  I  want  change.  I 
feel  shut  up  in  London.  Oh,  I  want  to  taste  my 
freedom — to  feel  its  wings!" 

"And  you  can't  do  that  in  London?"  His  eyes, 
narrowing,  were  fixed  upon  her  face. 

"I  feel  like  a  prisoner  here.  I've  done  nothing — 
and  I  won't  be  punished." 

"Who  wants  to  punish  you?" 

"All  the  people,"  said  Gillian,  "who  pity  me,  and 
give  me  advice.  I  sometimes  think  that  women, 
however  much  they  may  pretend  to  pity  me,  are 
looking  at  me  with  scorn,  and  saying  to  themselves, 
'What  a  fool  she  must  be — she  couldn't  even  keep 
her  husband!'  They  forget  that  there  aren't  many 
husbands  like  Aylmer."  She  paused  with  shining 
eyes.  "He  makes  me  think  of  Shelley.  I  had  ceased 
to  stimulate,  ceased  to  inspire  him.  It's  just  a  case 
of  Harriet  and  Mary  over  again.  I  was  always 
dreadfully  sorry  for  Harriet." 

"One  would  not,"  said  Paul  bitterly,  "take  Shelley 
for  an  example  of  domestic  respectability.  But 
Aylmer  has  not  Shelley's  excuse.  He  has  never 
been,  and  he  will  never  be,  a  great  poet.  To  my 
mind  he  is  on  the  contrary  a  very  mediocre  and 
inferior  one.  I  have  yawned  my  way  through  most 
of  his  plays.  I  dislike  his  verses  intensely.  I  dis- 
liked the  Gillian  series  of  sonnets  most  of  all!" 

It  seemed  almost  incredible  even  to  himself  that 
he  should  at  last  be  able  to  express  openly  and  fear- 


52  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

lessly  his  opinion  of  Aylmer  Driscoll  to  Aylmer's 
wife.  Yet  even  now  he  was  amazed  at  his  own 
hardihood. 

"He  would  have  been  far  greater  if  he  hadn't 
always  been  spoiled  by  the  critics,"  she  said  softly. 
"I  can  always  see  what's  good  in  his  art.  I  don't 
say  that  he's  like  Shelley  in  point  of  genius,  only 
that  he  reminds  me  of  him  sometimes.  He  wasn't 
generous  like  Shelley.  He  couldn't  have  written  the 
Adonais  about  a  brother  poet.  But  some  of  his 
work — not  a  great  deal  perhaps- — is  really  fine.  I 
didn't  like  the  Gillian  series  myself." 

While  she  sat  there  discussing  Aylmer  coldly  and 
dispassionately  with  Paul,  she  felt  as  though  she 
were  calmly  dissecting  an  intimate  stranger,  a  man 
whom  she  had  once  known,  and  from  whom  she 
had  long  been  separated.  It  was  so  difficult  to  iden- 
tify the  Aylmer  of  four  years  ago  with  the  Aylmer 
of  to-day.  The  past  controlled  the  present  to  a 
certain  extent,  but  it  could  not  cloud  her  judgment. 
Except  during  the  first  glamour  of  love  she  had 
always  been  able  to  criticise  his  work.  She  had  been 
ready  with  due  meed  of  praise,  but  she  had  been 
ruthless  too.  She  remembered  the  day  when  he  had 
first  cavilled  at  her  criticism ;  that  had  always  seemed 
to  her  the  beginning  of  the  end,  it  had  destroyed 
the  perfect  frankness  that  had  existed  between  them. 

Already  her  wound  was  old.  If  the  divorce  pro- 
ceedings had  punctured  it  to  fresh  hemorrhage  it 
was  still  very  nearly  healed.  A  year  ago  she  had 
suffered  and  wept;  had  felt  with  every  nerve  in 
her  body  the  dreadful  humiliation  of  Aylmer's  de- 
sertion. Love  does  not  die  very  easily  even  when 
pride  assists  at  the  slaying.  Hers  had  died  slowly, 
painfully,  step  by  step;  she  had  watched  it  as  a 
stoical  sufferer  will  observe  an  open  wound.  .  .  . 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  53 

Now  already  she  could  speak  of  Aylmer  the  poet  in 
this  cold,  impartial,  dispassionate  way;  she  could 
criticise  justly  and  generously,  yet  not  without  the 
old  frank  ruthlessness. 

"You  must  write  to  me,  you  know,"  Paul  said 
in  a  low  tone  under  cover  of  the  majestic  first  chords 
of  the  Pathetic  Symphony. 

"I  ...  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Gillian,  suddenly 
confused. 

His  face  hardened. 

"Don't  be  too  cruel  to  me,  Gillian,"  he  said.  "I 
know  when  we  are  hurt  ourselves  we  want  to  retali- 
ate, and  our  victim  is  generally  some  one  who  has 
committed  the  fatal  mistake  of  caring  for  us.  Don't, 
please,  make  me  your  victim!" 

"I  don't  see  that  my  writing  to  you  would  serve 
any  useful  purpose,  Paul,"  she  answered. 

"It  would  only  be  very  kind,  very  humane.  And 
when  you  send  for  me  I  shall  come." 

"But  I  shall  certainly  never  send  for  you !"  She 
looked  at  him  in  surprise  at  this  immensely  auda- 
cious suggestion. 

"Not  even,"  he  said,  "when  the  decree  is  made 
absolute?" 

"Not  even  then." 

"You  will  never  let  me  repeat  what  I  said  to  you 
the  night  before  last?" 

"Paul,  what's  the  use  of  talking  like  this?  You 
know  it  is  utterly  impossible!" 

He  jerked  back  his  head — a  trick  he  had  when 
he  was  at  all  perturbed — and  looked  her  steadily 
in  the  eyes. 

"Dear  heart — how  I  love  you!"  he  said,  smiling, 
yet  there  was  a  bitter  note  of  self-derision  in  his 
tone. 

The  look,  the  words,  touched  her  in  spite  of  her- 


54  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

self.  Almost  they  thrilled  her.  Something  in  her 
heart,  something  that  was  desolate,  lonely  and 
wounded,  responded  involuntarily  to  Paul.  She 
felt  pride  in  his  love — that  tortured  hurt  thing  laid 
maimed  at  her  feet.  His  strange  eyes,  dark  with 
mystery,  were  fixed  upon  her  with  frank  adoration. 
Her  own  softened  as  they  met  them.  His  words 
echoed  in  her  ears,  "Dear  heart — how  I  love  you 
..."  Joan's  whirling  notes  seemed  to  catch  them 
up  and  repeat  them  in  the  frantic  passion  of  the 
quick  movement.  And,  after  all,  were  they  not 
pretty  words?  Love,  whatever  its  guise,  was  almost 
always  a  beautiful  thing  of  gracious  words  and 
phrases.  .  .  . 

She  was  silent.  If  he  perceived  the  growing  soft- 
ness of  her  eyes  and  mouth  he  was  too  wise  to  follow 
up  his  brief  triumph.  She  rose  from  her  seat 
wearily;  her  slight,  lissom  figure  looked  delicate  and 
fragile. 

"I  must  really  be  going,  Cousin  Janet." 

Lady  Pallant  rose  and  surveyed  for  a  second  the 
almost  completed  puzzle.  Joan's  music  stopped  ab- 
ruptly on  a  crashing  chord  that  held  no  little  exas- 
peration. Paul  had  simply  monopolised  Jill  the 
whole  evening.  .  .  . 

"Don't  overdo  it,  Gillian,"  said  Lady  Pallant 
kissing  her,  "you  are  looking  very  tired." 

She  said  languidly,  "I  shall  rest  in  Italy — in  the 
sunshine.  I'm  anaemic — the  sun  is  the  best  cure  for 
that  in  the  world!" 

Lady  Pallant  said:  "The  winds  are  treacherous 
there  in  the  spring.  I  had  pneumonia  in  Florence 
once." 

"Oh,  I  shall  be  very  careful.  I'm  very  attentive 
to  Brother  Body !"  Her  tone  was  light.  She  kissed 
her  cousin  on  both  cheeks  and  then  turned  to  Joan, 
who  was  looking  plaintive  and  reproachful. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  55 

"Good-night,  dear  little  Joan.  Come  round  and 
see  me  at  tea-time  to-morrow — a  farewell  visit. 
You'll  find  me  dusty  and  grubby  with  packing!" 

Joan  clasped  her  round  the  neck,  regardless  of 
Paul's  former  speech.  "Good-night,  darling,  dar- 
ling Jill!" 

Paul   accompanied  her  downstairs. 

"How  are  you  going?" 

"I  must  have  a  taxi,  please." 

In  a  few  minutes  a  taxi  was  throbbing  before  the 
door.  Outside  in  the  square  the  immense  plane  trees 
were  swaying  against  the  night  sky,  tossing  their 
heads  like  plumes  in  the  hurrying  wind.  It  was  fine, 
and  a  few  stars  were  visible.  There  was  a  sense 
of  spring  in  the  rush  of  cold,  exhilarating  air  that 
met  them  as  they  stood  upon  the  doorstep. 

Paul  followed  Gillian  across  the  strip  of  pave- 
ment. For  a  moment  the  light  from  the  street  lamp 
illuminated  her  face.  It  was  white  and  troubled 
under  the  uncovered  masses  of  her  dark  hair.  She 
looked  like  a  queen,  proud  though  dethroned;  a 
queen  in  exile.  .  .  .  Paul's  hand  was  on  the  door 
of  the  cab. 

"I  must  see  you  home,"  he  said.  Before  she, 
could  remonstrate  he  had  got  in  and  was  sitting 
beside  her.  The  taxi  glided  forward. 

Joan,  drawing  aside  the  blind  in  the  drawing- 
room  and  looking  from  the  window,  said  jealously: 

"Paul's  gone  in  the  taxi  with  Gillian.  How  selfish 
it  was  to  keep  her  all  to  himself  this  evening.  He 
talked  to  her  all  the  time — I  never  had  a  word 
with  her!" 

She  gave  a  little  dry  sob.  Lady  Pallant  looked 
at  her  austerely. 

"You'd  better  go  up  to  bed,  Joan,  my  dear,"  she 
said  quite  good-humouredly.  "And  don't  talk  non- 


56  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

sense  about  Paul.  It's  always  silly  to  be  jealous." 
She  kissed  her  daughter's  forehead.  Joan  felt 
herself  dismissed  and  snubbed,  and  withdrew  sulkily 
triumphant  that  she  had,  at  any  rate,  "given  Paul 
away"  to  her  mother.  Was  Paul  really  in  love  with 
Gillian?  Did  he  mean  to  marry  her  when  the 
divorce  was  perfectly  accomplished?  They  seemed 
to  have  progressed  enormously  in  intimacy  since  the 
last  time  Joan  had  seen  them  together.  Did  Paul 
know  all  the  details  of  those  of  her  nebulous  plans 
that  Gillian  was  forming  for  the  future?  He  might 
follow  her  to  Italy.  ...  It  hurt  her  to  think  that 
Gillian  had  never  disclosed  to  her  that  growing 
friendship  with  Paul.  She  felt  in  a  sense  shut  out 
by  these  two  people  who  were  both  so  dear  to 
her.  . 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  the  cab  Paul  sat  silent,  not  raising  his  eyes. 
They  had  turned  up  into  Knightsbridge  and  a 
little  crush  delayed  them  at  the  corner  of  Sloane 
Street.  The  lights  of  a  giant  hotel  gleamed  vividly. 
Knots  of  people  awaiting  the  approaching  string  of 
omnibuses  stood  on  the  pavement.  There  was  stir, 
colour,  movement,  excitement  in  the  nocturnal 
scene.  Once  free  of  the  block  they  slipped  swiftly 
forward  into  the  comparative  quiet  of  the  long  road 
that  dips  to  Kensington.  The  trees  in  the  Park 
waved  their  leafless  branches;  their  dark  trunks 
looked  like  serried  ranks  of  sentinels.  Couples  loi- 
tered on  the  pathway,  their  arms  encircled.  Great 
motor  omnibuses  laden  with  human  freight  ground 
their  way  east  and  west.  .  .  .  And  Paul  turned 
suddenly  to  Gillian  as  if  realising  for  the  first  time 
that  they  were  alone  together  in  this  great,  wonder- 
ful, confused  world  of  London. 

"Oh,  my  darling,  I  love  you,"  he  said.  He  put 
his  arms  round  her  and  drew  her  to  him.  Their 
lips  met.  He  remembered  afterwards  that  he  had 
not  been  surprised  at  her  sudden  surrender.  To- 
night she  was  changed  and  softened;  she  was  be- 
ginning to  envisage  what  his  love  might  mean  for 
her  in  the  future.  To-night  he  could  almost  make 
himself  believe  that  she  loved  him. 

"And  you?  And  you?"  he  said.  But  again  his 
lips  were  on  hers  so  that  she  could  not  answer. 

"Oh,  Paul — it  is  all  so  wrong,  as  I  told  you 
before.  I'm  still  Aylmer's  wife.  I'm  not  going 
to  marry  you.  I  know  I  have  been  weak  in  letting 
you  speak  to  me  in  this  way — in  letting  you  kiss 
me.  ..."  She  hesitated,  withdrawing  now  from 

57 


58  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

his  touch.  He  could  scarcely  see  her  white  averted 
face. 

"But  if  you  love  me "  he  said,  bewildered. 

Surely  that  change  in  her  could  signify  nothing  but 
that  she  was  beginning  to  love  him. 

"Why,  you'll  be  as  free  as  Joan  in  six  months' 
time,  my  dear.  What's  going  to  prevent  our  mar- 
rying?" 

"I  tell  you  I  don't  feel  free!"  Her  face  wore 
a  puzzled  look  that  gave  it  for  the  moment  an 
almost  childish  aspect  of  helpless  inconsequence.  It 
was  that  of  a  child  brought  face  to  face  with  a 
problem  whose  solution  was  beyond  its  capacity. 
"Some  people  think  it  wrong — your  mother  does, 
for  instance — for  a  woman  who  has  divorced  her 
husband  to  remarry." 

"My  mother  thinks  it  wrong?"  he  repeated  in- 
credulously. 

Many  times  lately  he  had  seriously  considered 
the  question  of  confiding  his  secret  to  his  mother. 
She  had  always  wished  him  to  marry  young;  she 
had  sometimes  openly  deplored  his  delay  in  choosing 
a  wife  among  the  hundreds  of  charming  and  suit- 
able girls.  That  she  could  disapprove  of  Gillian 
as  a  future  daughter-in-law  provided  a  fresh  di- 
lemma in  a  situation  that  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
sufficiently  tangled.  Oh,  why  wasn't  Gillian  a  young 
girl,  free  to  love  him  without  question,  free  to  listen 
to  his  love?  He  caught  her  hands  passionately. 

"Oh,  my  dear — my  dear,"  he  said;  "don't  listen 
to  all  these  people.  We've  our  own  consciences — 
our  own  standards — haven't  we?  If  it  doesn't 
seem  wrong  to  us  we  cannot  hurt  our  own  honour !" 

"But  I'm  not  sure,  you  see.  I  don't  know  what 
to  think.  I  can't  say  whether  it's  wrong  or 
right.  .  .  /' 

He  put  his  arms  about  her  again.    The  comfort 


59 

of  his  touch  militated  powerfully  against  the  grow- 
ing desolation  of  her  loneliness.  Could  it  be  pos- 
sible that  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  him?  His 
ardent  love  and  devotion  had  undoubtedly  evoked 
response  within  her.  She  permitted  again  his  caress, 
his  kiss,  wondering  at  herself  through  all  her  grow- 
ing conviction  that  she  did  love  him,  did  wish  in 
the  far  future  to  marry  him. 

"I  love  you,"  he  murmured,  "I  love  you."  His 
hands  strayed  over  her  hair.  "How  beautiful  you 
are,  dear  Jill.  ..."  There  was  worship  in  his 
tone.  "Nothing  else  matters  if  we  love  each  other. 
You  must  write  to  me,  darling." 

The  taxi  stopped  abruptly  before  the  great  new 
block  of  red-brick  flats  built  in  careful  Georgian 
pattern.  He  sprang  out  and  helped  Gillian  to 
alight. 

"Don't  come  in,  Paul,"  she  said. 

"I  must  see  you  again.     When?"  he  said. 

"I'm  not  sure.     I'll  write." 

He  stopped  in  front  of  her,  unwilling  to  let 
her  go. 

"Do  you  think  Joan  guesses  anything?"  he  said. 

"I  can't  tell.  Sometimes  I  think  she  does.  She's 
jealous,  you  know.  But  she  hasn't  said  anything." 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "she  seems  jealous  and  suspi- 
cious. I  don't  understand  her.  She's  been  awfully 
queer  lately." 

"She's  a  good  little  soul,"  said  Gillian,  "be  kind 
to  her,  Paul." 

She  touched  his  hand  and  moved  away  towards 
the  lift.  She  did  not  look  back,  though  she  felt 
that  his  eyes  were  watching  her. 

Gillian  let  herself  in  with  the  latch-key.  She 
went  straight  into  her  bedroom  and  switched  on 
the  electric  light.  Then  she  examined  her  face 


60  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

scrutinisingly  in  the  mirror.  It  looked  white  and 
troubled  in  its  dark  setting  of  hair.  She  was  still 
trembling  a  little  with  an  emotion  she  had  not  as 
yet  attempted  to  analyse.  The  warmth  and  ardour 
of  Paul's  love  had  touched  her.  She  felt  no  longer 
so  cold,  so  desolate.  But  it  had  evoked  reminis- 
cences and  challenged  comparisons.  It  seemed  only 
the  other  day  that  Aylmer  had  come  to  her  with 
words  of  love — the  first  she  had  ever  heard.  She 
had  thought  and  believed  that  first  love  would  be 
immortal,  that  nothing  but  death  could  separate  her- 
self and  Aylmer.  .  .  .  Now  their  love  lay  dead 
between  them.  She  was  almost  glad  that  it  had 
died,  as  it  were,  abruptly.  No  slow  drifting  apart, 
no  daily  diminishing.  It  had  been  just  that — the 
seeking  and  finding  of  a  fresh  inspiration.  The 
egotism  of  genius  had  demanded  this  faithlessness. 

Her  maid  knocked  and  came  into  the  room. 

"I  didn't  hear  you  come  in,  ma'am.  Miss  Ven- 
ning  is  waiting  to  see  you  in  the  drawing-room." 

"Miss  Venning?"  said  Gillian,  bewildered.  "Oh, 
tell  her  I'll  come  in  a  moment." 

She  scarcely  knew  what  she  said. 

The  woman  withdrew  noiselessly.  Gillian  sat 
down  by  her  dressing-table  almost  stunned  by  the 
suddenness  of  the  announcement.  Why  had  De- 
borah come?  Why  must  she  face  the  double  tor- 
ture of  seeing  this  woman  who  had  once  been  her 
friend?  She  leaned  her  arms  on  the  table  and  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands.  Her  heart  beat  violently, 
the  trembling  of  her  limbs  increased.  At  last  she 
rose,  and  with  a  cold,  controlled  face  she  walked 
down  the  narrow  passage  into  the  drawing-room 
with  head  erect  and  eyes  shining  dangerously. 

Deborah,  who  was  sitting  listlessly  by  a  fire  that 
was  almost  out,  rose  and  came  quickly  towards  her. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  61 

She  was  going  to  kiss  her,  but  Gillian  stood  stock 
still  at  her  approach  and  did  not  even  hold  out  her 
hand.  Their  eyes  met.  .  .  . 

Deborah  was  not  in  evening  dress.  She  wore  a 
coat  and  skirt  of  dark  seal-coloured  velvet,  and  a 
large  hat  to  match  that  shaded  her  face.  Her 
throat  was  bare  and  looked  very  white  against  her 
dark  furs.  Her  vivid  golden-red  hair  shone 
strangely;  her  cheeks  were  flushed.  She  looked  to 
Gillian  immensely  changed,  and  in  the  change  there 
was  a  subtle  note  of  demoralisation  to  which  few 
women  could  have  been  blind.  The  slightly  ex- 
aggerated fashion  of  her  clothes  seemed  to  overpass 
the  legitimate  limit  of  "smartness";  she  was  not 
dressed  as  a  lady  should  be.  Gillian  recoiled  from 
her. 

"Why  have  you  come?"  she  said  in  her  cold  even 
way.  "If  you  had  written  first,  instead  of  taking 
me  by  storm,  I  should  have  told  you  quite  frankly 
that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  receive  you." 

Deborah  drew  back  a  step.  She  had  not  ex- 
pected a  definite  declaration  of  war.  What  did 
Gillian  know?  Aylmer  had  always  assured  her  of 
his  wife's  complete  and  unsuspecting  ignorance. 

"Why — what  do  you  mean?  I've  always  come 
to  see  you  whenever  I  liked,  Jill,"  she  began  pro- 
testingly. 

Gillian's  eyes  swept  her  face  with  a  remorseless 
scrutiny. 

"Have  you?"  she  said.  "Perhaps  times  have 
changed.  At  any  rate  for  the  future  I  should  like 
you  to  understand  quite  clearly  that  I  can't  and 
won't  receive  you.  I  don't  wish  to  see  you.  I  am 
sure  you  will  know  why  without  my  having  to  tell 
you !" 

It  seemed  to  her  that  something  of  Deborah's 
magnificent  vitality  left  her  at  these  words.  She 


62  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

looked  suddenly  drooping.  Her  lips  parted,  but 
she  uttered  no  word. 

Gillian  was  silent,  too.  She  had  no  intention  of 
helping  her  out  of  a  situation  she  had  brought  vol- 
untarily upon  herself. 

"But,  Jill  ..."  she  said  at  last;  "but,  Jill  .  .  ., 
I  don't  understand  I" 

"But  I  do!"  Gillian's  voice  rang  out  inexorably. 
"Your  name  was  not  mentioned,  and  you  have  me 
to  thank  for  that  1  I  can't  think  why  I  was  so  stupid 
and  weak  as  to  keep  it  out  of  the  proceedings.  But 
because  I  am  stupid  and  weak  I  didn't  mean  you 
were  to  dare  to  come  here  and  encroach  upon  my 
privacy!" 

"Oh,  but  you  are  making  a  mistake,  Jill  ...  a 
frightful,  hideous  mistake !" 

"Don't  please  tell  me  any  lies,  Deborah.  It  isn't 
worth  while.  I  really  know  everything."  She 
moved  towards  the  bell  significantly,  and  was  about 
to  put  her  finger  upon  it  when  Deborah  ran  forward 
to  stop  her. 

"Oh,  Jill — one  moment!  What — what  are  you 
going  to  do?" 

"Do?  Why  nothing  at  all,"  said  Gillian.  "What 
are  you  afraid  of?" 

She  gazed  at  Deborah  with  scorn.  The  girl 
looked  very  white,  and  her  mouth  was  trembling 
piteously.  Her  mouth  was  her  ugliest  feature,  it 
was  large  and  weak.  But  the  upper  part  of  her 
face  was  beautiful,  even  the  eyes  of  greenish  hazel, 
clear  as  a  summer  pond. 

"How  did  you  know?"  she  gasped  at  last 

"You  must  be  satisfied  with  knowing  that  I  do 
know.  Will  you  please  go  away  now,  Deborah?  I 
am  going  to  ring  the  bell.  I've  done  a  great  deal 
for  you,  but  I  really  can't  see  you  and  talk  to  you — • 
you  mustn't  expect  it." 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  63 

"You  knew  all  the  time?"  The  words  were 
laboured,  as  if  dragged  from  her  against  her  will. 

"Almost — all  the  time." 

Deborah  suddenly  fell  on  her  knees,  sobbing  at 
Gillian's  feet. 

"Don't  make  a  scene,  please,"  said  Gillian 
harshly.  "Do  get  up  and  go  away." 

"Oh,  Jill — Jill — you're  an  angel.  It  would  have 
simply  killed  dad  if  he'd  known  anything!" 

"What  a  pity  you  ran  the  risk,  then,  of  killing 
him,"  said  Gillian.  Her  light  ironic  tone  flicked  like 
a  whip.  She  regarded  the  kneeling  figure  with 
amused  scorn. 

"Forgive  me — forgive  me,  Jill." 

"Why  should  I  forgive  you?  You  knew  what 
you  were  doing  I  You've  ruined  my  life  and  my 
home.  You've  been  a  low-down  thief.  I  despise 
you.  It's  no  good  your  coming  and  whining  to 
me,  now — whimpering  over  a  thing  you  did  delib- 
erately— only  afraid  of  being  found  outl  You  had 
better  get  up,  for  I  am  going  to  ring  the  bell  I" 

Deborah  rose  to  her  feet.  Her  face  was  slightly 
reddened  with  crying;  her  hat  was  a  little  awry, 
it  intensified  and  accentuated  that  indescribable  look 
of  demoralisation  which  Gillian  had  noticed  in  her 
appearance  to-night. 

Gillian  held  the  door  open  and  she  had  no  choice 
but  to  say  good-bye  and  go  quietly  away,  for  the 
maid  was  already  at  the  front  door  waiting  to  show 
her  out. 

"She  knows  what  she  wanted  to  know — -what  she 
came  here  to  find  out,"  said  Gillian  to  herself. 

She  had  hated  the  degrading  little  scene.  To 
utter  hideous  truths  seemed  always  a  soiling  thing 
to  do,  no  matter  how  necessary  it  might  be.  She  had 
hated  this  meeting  with  Deborah,  so  superfluous, 
so  unnecessary.  She  had  never  desired  the  consola- 


64  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

tion  of  an  opportunity  to  tell  her  dispossessor  what 
she  thought  of  her.  .  .  . 

"Deborah  asked  for  it,"  she  said,  excusing  her- 
self. 

What  an  evening  of  turmoil — of  dramatic  hap- 
penings, unsought,  undesired.  First  Paul — then  Deb- 
orah. Her  unquiet  brain  meditated  first  upon  one, 
then  upon  the  other;  filling  her  thoughts  with  pain- 
ful confusion.  How  glad  she  would  be  to  go  away 
— away  from  it  all.  She  longed  to  cut  the  ties  that 
bound  her  to  England,  to  make  a  fresh  start,  to  hide 
herself  as  it  were.  What  would  Deborah  tell 
Aylmer?  Would  she  confess  that  episode  of  her 
nocturnal  visit,  and  its  results  so  ignominious  to  her- 
self? She  strongly  felt  that  Deborah  would  keep 
the  matter  to  herself.  She  had  not  been  spared. 
She  had  come  to  have  her  fears  allayed,  as  a  mur- 
derer will  seek  his  victim's  grave  to  assure  himself 
that  it  has  not  been  disturbed,  that  nothing  has  been 
investigated  nor  discovered.  She  had  come  perhaps 
to  look  upon  her  hapless  dupe.  She  was  the  older 
of  the  two ;  at  school  she  had  always  had  the  stronger 
character,  she  had  led  Gillian.  .  .  . 

Gillian  sat  immersed  in  these  painful  and  bitter 
thoughts.  The  fire  had  gone  out,  but  she  did  not 
feel  at  all  cold.  She  knew  she  would  find  one 
brightly  blazing  in  her  bedroom  directly  she  went 
there.  Even  now  the  room  seemed  full  of  Deborah's 
presence;  the  scent  of  her  clothes  still  drenched  It. 
.  .  .  Yes,  there  had  been  something  repulsive  about 
Deborah  to-night.  She  was  too  vivid,  and  she  had 
lost  dignity  and  self-respect.  When  she  had  been 
kneeling  there  in  utter  abandonment  and  entreaty, 
Gillian  had  felt  inclined  to  touch  her  with  her  foot 
as  she  might  have  touched  and  spurned  some  un- 
clean reptile.  She  had  resisted  the  impulse.  Deb- 
orah was  almost  low  enough  in  her  own  estima- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  65 

tion;  she  could  only  kneel  and  cry  for  mercy  and 
silence.  To  sue  favour  of  one  whom  one  has  in- 
jured irremediably  is  a  depth  to  which  few  can 
descend  without  loss  of  caste. 

How  could  Aylmer  love  this  woman  ?  How  could 
she  inspire  him?  He  had  perhaps  seen  in  her  only 
the  innocent  girl  diligently  tending  at  all  seasons  the 
flowers  of  her  own  growing.  Deborah's  garden  was 
almost  celebrated,  and  she  had  even  published  a 
little  book  about  it,  illustrated  with  photographs 
of  her  own  taking.  Over  and  over  again  during  the 
first  year  of  their  married  life  Gillian  and  Aylmer 
had  spent  week-ends  with  the  Vennings.  Aylmer 
had  once  described  the  relations  of  Deborah  and 
her  old  father — to  whom  she  was  indeed  sincerely 
attached — as  ideal.  He  had  liked  the  quiet  and  re- 
pose of  the  old  Surrey  garden  with  its  fresh  perfume 
in  hot  June  days  of  roses  and  stocks  and  syringa. 
Sometimes  when  Gillian  had  been  prevented  by  ill- 
ness or  mourning  from  accompanying  him,  he  had 
gone  alone  at  her  persuasion.  After  the  baby's 
death,  indeed,  Gillian  had  welcomed  it  as  a  relaxa- 
tion for  him  when  she  was  in  too  deep  grief  to  see 
any  one.  She  had  believed  absolutely  in  Deborah's 
love  for  herself,  in  Deborah's  unalterable  loyalty 
and  allegiance.  The  two  in  whom  she  had  the  most 
perfect  confidence  had  betrayed  her  and  she  could 
scarcely  tell  which  of  the  two  disillusionments  had 
been  the  more  bitter. 

The  coming  of  Deborah  had  disturbed  her  tran- 
quillity anew.  She  felt  restless  to-night;  her  brain 
was  extraordinarily  active.  Perhaps,  too,  she  re- 
proached herself  a  little  for  having  listened  to  Paul's 
renewed  words  of  love,  for  having  suffered  his  kisses, 
his  touch.  She  did  not  quite  know  why  she  had 
yielded  except  that  it  had  seemed  in  a  sense  to  com- 
fort her.  She  had  felt  grateful  to  him.  If  she 


66  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

married  him  she  knew  that  his  love  for  her  would 
never  undergo  any  change;  it  was  of  the  obstinate, 
persistent  kind  that  nothing  can  destroy.  He  would 
always  worship  her,  always  kneel  at  her  feet.  His 
dark  eyes  followed  her  into  her  dreams  that  night, 
and  in  her  dreams,  too,  she  heard  him  repeat  with 
a  new  and  wonderful  tenderness:  "One  of  these 
days,  dear  Jill — one  of  these  days" 


CHAPTER  VI 

AT  four  o'clock  on  the  following  day  Joan  Pallant 
appeared,  a  pleasing  picture  of  youth  and  pret- 
tiness  that  never  amounted  to  actual  beauty,  care- 
fully and  fashionably  dressed  in  a  dark  blue  coat  and 
skirt  with  big  white  furs.  She  was  triumphant,  too, 
at  the  thought  of  having  scored  a  victory  over  Paul, 
who  had  not  been  invited,  but  this  brief  triumph 
was  quickly  destroyed,  for  on  entering  Gillian's 
bright  little  room  she  discovered  Miss  Letitia  Stan- 
way — the  younger  of  Mrs.  Driscoll's  two  aunts — 
already  ensconced  there  in  the  most  comfortable 
armchair  near  the  fire. 

Miss  Stanway  was  elderly  but  child-like.  This 
was  because  she  had  always  been  treated  by  her  elder 
sister  as  though  she  were  still  a  foolish  inclined-to-be- 
naughty  child.  Letitia  had  always  been  dominated 
by  Martha,  obeying  her,  deferring  to  her  in  all 
things.  Miss  Martha  still  rated  her  soundly  on  oc- 
casion, and  almost  always  behaved  tyrannically 
towards  her,  and  Letitia  adored  her  a'nd  looked  up 
to  her  in  all  things. 

As  a  child  when  still  under  their  tutelage,  Gillian 
had  very  much  preferred  her  Aunt  Letitia.  This 
was  principally  because  Aunt  Matty  had  always 
undertaken  the  disagreeable  side  of  her  education. 
It  was  Aunt  Matty  who  gave  her  her  first  lessons, 
who  had  been  the  one  to  take  her  to  the  dentist, 
and  administer  when  necessary  powders,  rebukes, 
and  even  painful  punishments.  Her  rule  had  been 
a  very  strict  one,  but  on  the  whole  it  was  fairly  just, 
although  Gillian  soon  became  aware  that  it  was  more 
severe  than  that  enjoyed  by  the  majority  of  her  own 
contemporaries. 


68  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

While  it  had  been  Miss  Martha's  role  to  punish 
and  reform,  it  had  been  Miss  Letty's  to  comfort 
and  assuage.  This  was  done  in  no  subversive  sense, 
for  Miss  Martha  permitted  the  chidden  Gillian  to 
seek  the  comfort  of  Miss  Letty's  sympathy.  "Or- 
phans require  a  certain  indulgence,"  she  was  wont 
to  say.  "I  am  sure  if  our  dear  sister  had  lived  she 
would  have  spoilt  Gillian  terribly — she  was  always 
much  too  soft." 

Gillian  had  spent  the  first  eighteen  years  of  her 
life  in  the  little  grey  severe-looking  house  in  Brock 
Street,  with  only  rare  intervals  of  absence  when  she 
went  to  school  or  was  taken  to  the  seaside.  She 
was,  in  many  ways,  extraordinarily  ignorant  and 
innocent  when  she  went  to  spend  that  memorable 
first  season  with  Lady  Pallant — an  epoch  which  had 
promptly  ended  with  her  marriage  to  Aylmer.  But 
she  had  been  very  carefully  educated.  In  Bath  it 
would  be  a  matter  of  some  difficulty  for  a  girl  to 
escape  education.  Gillian  went  to  the  Technical 
School  to  learn  cooking  and  dressmaking.  She  was 
drilled  and  taught  to  dance  and  swim ;  she  was  even 
forced  to  play  games  which  she  dislilted  and  found 
fatiguing.  Her  clothes  were  strong  and  plain,  but 
they  could  not  hide  the  delicious  grace  of  her  slight 
figure.  Bare  throats  and  low-necked  blouses  were, 
it  is  needless  to  say,  taboo  in  that  demure  household. 
The  short  and  tight  skirts  of  that  era  were  never 
permitted  to  disfigure  the  slim  form  of  Gillian.  Her 
aunts  spent  a  good  deal  on  her  clothes,  and  in  spite 
of  the  severity  of  their  tastes  she  contrived  to  look 
charming,  if  a  little  old-fashioned  and  ungirlish. 

"The  fashions  are  positively  indecent,"  Miss 
Martha  had  observed,  gazing  at  a  picture  of  a  nar- 
row slit-up  skirt  worn  by  a  young  woman  whose  as- 
pect suggested  effrontery,  "and  I  will  never  consent 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  69 

to  dear  Gillian  wearing  melons  in  her  ears  like  those 
Barracombe  girls!" 

Letitia  had  been  weeping  just  before  Joan's  ar- 
rival over  the  defalcation  of  Aylmer  Driscoll. 

Seeing  Gillian  alone  in  her  flat  "brought  it  all 
home  to  her,"  she  said.  And  who  could  believe 
that  a  man  capable  of  writing  such  exquisite  verses, 
full  of  edifying,  uplifting  thoughts,  could  be  so 
wicked  and  unprincipled? 

"We  thought — Matty  and  I — that  he  was  the 
one  man  worthy  of  our  dear  Gillian,  and  the  one 
who  could  best  understand  and  appreciate  her.  We 
always  believed,  my  dear,  that  your  life  would  be 
one  long  path  of  sunshine." 

For  in  spite  of  a  lifetime  spent  beneath  the  crush- 
ing common  sense  of  Miss  Matty,  Letitia  Stanway 
still  remained  incorrigibly  sentimental.  Had  Miss 
Martha  been  present  she  would  certainly  have 
checked  such  an  effusion  with  a  severe,  "Don't  be  a 
sentimental  goose,  Letty!"  But  for  once  Miss 
Letitia  was  in  a  position  to  speak  freely  out  of  the 
fulness  of  her  heart,  and  if  any  transitory  sense 
of  gratitude  for  the  cold  in  the  head  that  had  kept 
Martha  in  Bath  that  day  had  ever  found  inward 
expression  in  her  heart  she  would  have  immediately 
suppressed  it  as  unimaginably  wicked. 

Nor  was  she  quite  sure  that  her  sister  would  have 
encouraged  any  discussion  of  such  an  unmentionable 
episode  as  a  divorce  case  even  with  one  of  the  lead- 
ing characters.  She  belonged  to  a  generation  that 
was  appalled  and  shocked  by  the  frank  discussion  of 
realities. 

"No  one's  life  is  ever  a  path  of  sunshine,"  said 
Gillian  coolly,  "even  I  didn't  expect  that,  you  know, 
Aunt  Letty.  But  I  did  expect,  like  most  girls,  just 


yo  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

the  ordinary  commonplace  normal  happiness  with 
all  its  ups  and  downs  that  marriage  generally  means 
when  two  people  are  really  in  love  with  each  other. 
You  mustn't  fret  over  it,  Aunt  Letty.  It's  bad,  I 
know,  but  it  isn't  as  bad  as  it  sounds.  One  can  get 
used  to  almost  anything,  I  believe." 

"If  we  could  only  persuade  you  to  return  to  our 
roof,"  said  Miss  Letitia,  "it  would  be  such  a  joy  to 
have  you,  dear  Gillian.  Bath  is  always  so  charm- 
ing at  this  time  of  year,  and  the  quiet,  regular,  har- 
monious life  would  refresh  and  soothe  you  after  all 
you  have  gone  through.  Martha  begged  me  to  add 
her  entreaties  to  mine.  She  could  not  approve,  she 
said,  of  any  one  so  young  and — and  pretty  as  your- 
self, Gillian,  going  abroad  alone." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  Aunt  Letty.  Later  on — 
perhaps.  Just  now  I  don't  want  to  go  anywhere 
where  I  know  people,  or  have  friends.  ...  I  feel 
I  can't  display  my  unsuccess  before  the  world." 

Gillian  leaned  a  little  forward  towards  the  fire, 
the  light  of  which  warmed  the  dull  vieux-rose  char- 
meuse  dress  she  was  wearing  to  a  flame-like  hue. 

"Martha  always  felt,"  continued  Letitia,  "that  if 
she  could  only  have  seen  Aylmer  and  talked  to  him 
and  remonstrated  with  him  she  might  have  influenced 
him  for  his  good,  and  persuaded  him  to  return  to 
you.  But  he  absolutely  refused  to  see  her  or  even 
to  communicate  with  her  except  through  his  solicitor, 
who  certainly  wrote  the  most  insulting  letters.  If 
you  remember,  Aylmer  never  seemed  to  care  for 
Martha  even  at  the  beginning — I  can't  think  why!" 

Gillian  suppressed  a  smile,  covering  her  face, 
which  was  still  averted,  with  her  hand.  How  diffi- 
cult it  had  been,  even  in  the  beginning,  to  induce 
Aylmer  to  journey  down  to  Bath  and  stay  in  Brock 
Street.  He  declared  that  the  large  joints  of  beef 
and  mutton,  the  boiled  suet  puddings,  watery  vege- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  71 

tables,  and  the  cold  food  rigorously  adhered  to  on 
Sundays,  made  him  perfectly  ill.  He  also  passion- 
ately disapproved  of  Miss  Stanway's  firm  attitude 
towards  the  dates  upon  which  she  considered  that 
fires  should  be  given  up. 

The  smile  hurt  Gillian ;  it  belonged  to  those  days 
of  perfect  sympathy,  of  mutual  laughter  over  Miss 
Martha's  unbending  discipline. 

"Martha  declares  she  will  never  open  another 
book  of  Aylmer's;  she  has  burnt  all  those  she  had," 
added  Miss  Letitia. 

"You  must  tell  her,"  said  Gillian,  looking  up, 
"that  she  mustn't  judge  poets  just  like  other  people. 
They  are  different."  She  fell  back  on  her  old  line 
of  defence  that  had  been  so  unsuccessful  with  Paul 
Pallant.  "She  must  remember  Shelley." 

"Shelley?"  Miss  Letitia  was  now  genuinely 
shocked.  "Oh,  my  dear  Gillian — such  a  wicked 
young  man  with  all  those  Harriets  and  Marys  and 
Janes.  Pray  do  not  mention  Shelley !  Martha  and 
I  have  never  read  his  poems  except  a  few  in  the 
anthologies.  So  opposed  to  all  law  and  order  and 
discipline !  Badly  as  Aylmer  has  behaved,  he  hardly 
deserves  to  be  compared  with  Shelley.  What  does 
Janet  Pallant  say?"  she  continued.  "I  feel  she  must 
be  dreadfully  distressed,  especially  as  you  were 
married  from  her  house.  Dear  Gillian,"  sentiment- 
ally and  reminiscently,  "I  always  said  you  were  the 
handsomest  couple  I  ever  saw.  Aylmer  was  really 
beautiful — for  a  man — and  you,  well,  of  course,  we 
may  have  been  partial,  but  I  can  remember  Matty 
saying  to  me  on  the  way  home,  'We  have  every 
right  to  be  proud  of  our  dear  little  girl !'  ' 

"Do  have  one  of  those  cakes,  Aunt  Letty,"  said 
Gillian,  desirous  of  stemming  the  flood  of  reminis- 
cence. 

"Oh  my  dear — you  are  feeding  me  far  too  well ! 
And  after  all  those  rich,  delicious  things  we  had  at 


72  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

lunch  I  feel  as  if  I  had  eaten  far  too  much  already. 
Only  I  was  hungry  after  my  long  journey.  Of 
course  I  know  the  trains  are  very  quick,  but  two 
hours  is  quite  a  long  time  when  one  seldom  goes  be- 
yond the  Sydney  Gardens  or  the  Pump  Room.  We 
are  getting  so  old  and  stay-at-home  that  I  assure 
you  we  regard  going  to  Lansdown  or  Sion  Hill  as 
quite  an  excursion!" 

"I  wish  I  could  have  seen  Aunt  Matty  before  I 
start,"  said  Gillian,  "but  you  must  say  good-bye  to 
her  for  me  and  tell  her  I've  quite  made  up  my  mind 
to  go  to  Italy." 

"I  do  wish  you  were  not  going  there,"  said  Miss 
Letitia,  not  unmindful  of  her  sister's  very  trenchant 
and  pronounced  views  on  the  subject.  "We  know 
such  a  sad  thing  that  happened  to  a  girl  who  went 
there  about  two  years  ago.  She  was  invited  to 
Rome  to  visit  some  friends  and  she  was  so  delighted 
at  the  prospect — all  her  young  companions  envied 
her!  I  remember  it  caused  quite  a  little  stir.  Her 
name  was  Elsie  Smith — perhaps  you  remember  her? 
Well,  she  became  a  Papist  while  she  was  in  Rome, 
and  nothing  they  could  do  or  say  could  stop  her  or 
induce  her  to  change  when  she  came  home  again. 
And  after  a  few  months  she  went  into  a  nunnery. 
Such  a  sad,  sad  thing!  It  has  quite  broken  her 
mother's  heart." 

"I  don't  think  you  need  be  afraid,"  said  Gillian 
dryly,  "of  my  becoming  a  Papist." 

The  case  of  Elsie  Smith,  nevertheless,  interested 
her.  She  remembered  her — a  weak,  foolish-looking 
girl  with  no  chin  to  speak  of,  and  with  a  tyrannical 
widowed  mother  whom  she  could  surely  have  never 
disobeyed  before  in  her  life.  That  she  could  have 
displayed  such  obstinate  determination  under  any 
circumstances  amazed  Gillian.  Still  ...  a  nun- 
nery! 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  73 

"I  expect  she  became  a  nun  to  get  away  from  Mrs. 
Smith,"  she  observed,  after  a  brief  mental  survey 
of  the  situation. 

"Oh,  I  assure  you  her  mother  simply  adored  her !" 
said  Miss  Letitia  in  a  shocked  tone;  "it  is  a  lasting 
grief  to  her.  I  always  advise  young  people  now  not 
to  go  to  Rome,  but  if  they  persist  in  doing  so,  I  say, 
Remember  Elsie  Smith!" 

Gillian  laughed. 

"It's  no  laughing  matter,  my  dear  Gillian,"  said 
Miss  Letitia  nervously,  wondering  how  Martha 
would  have  dealt  with  this  apparent  flippancy.  "I 
consider  it  very  wrong  to  court  temptation.  One 
never  knows  how  one  may  be  able  to  resist  it.  And 
Rome  does  put  the  Roman  Catholic  point  of  view 
very  temptingly  in  front  of  people,  I  have  always 
been  told.  There  are  so  many  surface  attractions, 
and  then  their  music  is  delightful.  People  are  led 
on  little  by  little,  scarcely  realising  it.  And  the 
power  of  the  priests  is  so  great !  One  could  see  that 
poor  little  weak  Elsie  would  have  small  chance 
against  them!" 

Gillian  struck  in  to  change  the  subject — she  was 
beginning  to  get  tired  of  Elsie  Smith — "I'm  expect- 
ing Joan  Pallant  this  afternoon.  You  remember 
Joan,  don't  you,  Aunt  Letty?  She  was  one  of  my 
bridesmaids." 

"Oh  yes,  indeed,  I  remember  her  quite  well.  I 
remember,  too,  that  Matty  thought  the  way  she 
did  her  hair  was  not  quite  comme  il  faitt.  And  her 
dress — for  a  young  girl — she  wasn't  even  out  then ! 
Still,  Janet  Pallant  is  a  very  worldly  woman.  And 
then  that  other  good-looking  girl  who  was  your 
bridesmaid — the  one  who  was  at  school  with  you — 
Deborah  Venning?" 

"Oh,  Deborah's  quite  well,"  said  Gillian  hastily. 
"I  saw  her  quite  lately." 


74  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"She  must  be  terribly  distressed,  too.  Why — 
she  quite  worshipped  you,  dear  Gillian !" 

"Did  she?  Well,  yes,  I  suppose  she  is  dis- 
tressed!" 

She  spoke  with  intentional  carelessness. 

"People  take  these  things  so  much  more  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course  than  they  used  to,"  said  Miss  Letitia 
regretfully;  "I  know  dear  Matty  and  I  are  not  at 
all  up-to-date,  and  it  really  shocks  us  to  hear  people 
speaking  so  plainly  and  openly  of  divorce  and  ap- 
pendicitis and  all  sorts  of  horrors !  There  has  been 
a  great  change  for  the  worse  since  the  dear  Queen 
died."  She  dropped  her  voice  to  a  respectful  whis- 
per, as  if  it  were  almost  high  treason  to  allude  to 
the  mortality  of  so  illustrious  a  monarch.  "Such  an 
example  of  domestic — indeed,  of  every  kind  of 
virtue!  She  would  not  receive  even  the  innocent 
person  of  a  divorce  case.  It  was  a  fault  on  the 
right  side,  dear  Gillian.  We  little  thought  in  those 
days  that  our  own  niece — our  sister's  daughter " 

"The  unexpected  always  happens,"  interrupted 
Gillian,  who  dreaded  her  aunt's  sentimental  out- 
bursts and  was  beginning  to  wish  that  Joan  would 
arrive  and  put  an  end  to  all  intimate  conversation. 
"I  dare  say  I  wasn't  the  right  wife  for  Aylmer.  But 
he  wanted  a  fresh  inspiration,  and  I  couldn't  inspire 
him  any  more.  Either  I  or  his  work  had  to  go  to 
the  wall,  so  I  went.  It  was  a  nasty  hard  wall,  and 
it  hurt  me  dreadfully,  so  please  don't  let  us  talk 
about  it  any  more !" 

"My  dear,  is  it  necessary  because  one  writes 
poetry  to  lose  all  one's  moral  sense?"  protested  Miss 
Letitia.  "I  really  don't  know  what  dear  Matty 
would  say  to  such  a  dreadful  suggestion.  A  man 
to  sacrifice  his  wife  to  his  work!" 

"You  must  tell  Aunt  Matty  that  I  wish  I  could 
have  found  time  to  run  down  to  Bath  for  a  few 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  75 

days  before  I  go,  but  it's  simply  impossible,"  said 
Gillian. 

She  pictured  the  little  grey  house  in  Brock  Street, 
her  sombre  home  for  so  many  years.  It  faced  the 
little  grey  street,  but  at  the  back  its  windows  com- 
manded a  delicious  view  of  the  Park,  where  even 
now  the  crocuses  must  be  alight  with  their  golden 
fire,  and  the  snowdrops  peeping  forth.  .  .  . 

Then  Joan  came  in,  plaintive  and  a  little  prickly 
when  she  first  perceived  the  austere  and  ill-dressed 
presence  of  the  younger  Miss  Stanway.  She  had 
looked  forward  to  a  tete-a-tete  with  Gillian. 

Gillian  said:  "We're  having  tea  early.  Aunt 
Letty  has  to  catch  a  train."  She  smiled  carelessly 
at  Joan. 

"Yes,  Miss  Pallant — I've  come  up  from  Bath  for 
the  day.  I  couldn't  leave  Martha  for  more  than  one 
day,  especially  when  she  has  such  a  bad  cold  in  her 
head.  I'm  always  afraid  of  her  chest,"  said  Miss 
Letitia  with  nervous  volubility. 

A  disjointed  conversation   followed. 

"Do  you  know  Bath,  Miss  Pallant?" 

"No — I've  only  passed  through  it  in  the  train." 

"It's  delightful  in  the  winter  and  early  spring,  in 
fact  Martha  and  I  are  devoted  to  it  all  the  year 
round.  If  you  care  for  music  there  are  first-rate 
concerts  at  the  Pump  Room.  And  the  balls  at 
Christmas  and  Easter — our  young  people  there  do 
really  enjoy  themselves!  They're  not  at  all  dull,  I 
assure  you.  And  tennis  and  boating  all  the  sum- 
mer!" 

"I'm  sure  it  must  be  charming,"  said  Joan  in  a 
bored,  indifferent  tone. 

"Do  have  some  cake,  Joan,"  said  Gillian. 

"We  have  a  house  in  Brock  Street —  I  dare  say 
dear  Gillian  has  told  you  about  it.  But  nowadays 
most  people  want  to  live  on  one  of  the  hills,  Bath- 


76  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

wick,  Sion,  or  Lansdown !  Martha  arid  I  don't  care 
very  much  for  walking  uphill  now  we  are  getting  on 
in  years.  But  we  have  a  charming  view  of  the  Park 
from  our  back  windows.  Oh,  I  assure  you  Bath  is 
a  beautiful  city.  And  the  society  is  very  good.  And 
the  education  is  excellent — we  pride  ourselves  upon 
it.  We  always  flattered  ourselves  that  Gillian  could 
not  have  had  greater  advantages  in  London  1" 

Gillian  smiled.  "I'm  afraid,  then,  I'm  not  a 
credit  to  Bath,"  she  said  lightly.  "And  I'm  sure  it 
must  be  horribly  shocked  at  me  now !" 

Miss  Letitia  flushed  quite  pink.  "Ah,  we  old 
fogies  don't  discuss  such  things,  dear  Gillian. 
Martha  did  receive  six  letters  of  sympathy  from  very 
old  and  intimate  friends,  most  delicately  expressed  if 
I  may  say  so !  I  am  thankful  that  nothing  was  men- 
tioned in  the  local  papers — we  were  so  very  much 
afraid  that  it  might  be!  We  have,  you  see,  Miss 
Pallant,  such  a  very  large  circle  of  acquaintances  in 
Bath,  and  it  is  not  the  fashion  there  to  seek  for 
notoriety.  It  would  have  distressed  us  very  much  to 
be  mentioned  in  connection  with  such  an  unfortunate 
case." 

"I  am  sure  you  would  have  felt  as  if  you  had  lost 
caste,  dear  Aunt  Letty,"  said  Gillian  in  a  teasing 
tone,  which  only  served  to  deepen  the  flush  on  her 
aunt's  elderly  cheek. 

"My  dear  Gillian — how  strangely  you  are  talk- 
ing. I  am  so  glad  dear  Martha  is  not  here  to  hear 
you.  She  so  deprecates  any  frivolity  of  outlook 
where  it  is  a  question  of — of  sin  I" 

She  uttered  the  last  word  below  her  breath.  Gil- 
lian bit  her  lip,  suppressing  a  smile.  She  would  not 
have  been  surprised  to  hear  that  the  front  blinds  had 
been  drawn  down  in  Brock  Street  on  the  day  of  her 
divorce.  Joan  glanced  with  indignant  scorn  at  Miss 
Stanway.  Did  she  understand  Gillian  so  little  that 
she  could  accuse  her  of  frivolity?  The  implied  re« 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  77 

proach  in  her  tone  made  Joan  long  ardently  to  take 
up  the  cudgels  in  defence  of  her  friend. 

She  did  not  dare  do  this,  upon  reflection.  She 
said  slowly,  looking  straight  at  Mrs.  Driscoll: 

"Paul  has  gone  back  to  Aldershot!" 

She  watched  her  closely  as  she  spoke,  with  a  kind 
of  jealous  vigilance,  and  wondered  at  the  calm  in- 
difference of  her  answer. 

"Has  he?    He  seems  to  get  no  end  of  leave  I" 

"He  was  in  a  fiendish  temper  all  the  time  he  was 
up,"  said  Joan  vindictively. 

Gillian  looked  up  at  her  with  an  indulgent  rather 
patronising  smile;  there  was  a  hint  of  irony  in  her 
tone  as  she  said: 

"You  both  seemed  to  be  a  little  on  edge  when  I 
dined  with  you.  I  felt  really  quite  sorry  for  Cousin 
Janet!" 

Beneath  the  implied  rebuke  Joan  flushed  scarlet. 
She  was  thankful  that  at  this  moment  Miss  Stan- 
way  glanced  at  the  clock  and  rose  fussily  to  go  with 
a  little  bustle  appropriate  to  the  occasion. 

"Good-bye,  Miss  Pallant — such  a  pleasure  to 
have  met  you  again.  My  love  to  Janet.  Good-bye, 
dearest  Gillian — take  care  of  yourself  and  be  sure 
and  write  regularly — we  shall  be  longing  for  news." 
She  kissed  her  niece  effusively  on  both  cheeks.  "And 
my  dear,  dear  Gillian,  do  please  remember  poor 
Elsie  Smith!"  She  waved  a  forefinger  garbed  in 
inky  kid  warningly  at  Gillian  as  she  moved  towards 
the  door. 

"Elise  is  going  with  you  to  see  you  off,"  said  Gil- 
lian, laughing.  "You've  got  lots  of  time,  Aunt 
Letty.  My  very  best  love  to  Aunt  Matty."  She 
accompanied  her  into  the  hall,  and  Joan  could  hear 
further  embraces  being  exchanged. 

"Who  on  earth's  Elsie  Smith?"  she  asked  rather 
sulkily  when  Gillian  returned. 

"A  Bath  girl  who  went  to  Rome  and  became  a 


78  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

Catholic,"  said  Gillian,  throwing  herself  wearily 
upon  the  sofa.  A  day  of  Miss  Letitia  had  exhausted 
her  completely.  And  the  subject  did  not  interest 
her;  she  wondered  at  the  idle  curiosity  that  had 
prompted  Joan  to  return  to  it.  "Have  some  more 
cake,  Joan." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Joan.  She  put  her  cup 
down  on  the  table.  "So  you  have  really  made  up 
your  mind  to  go  to  Rome,  Jill?" 

"Yes,  I  hope  to  get  off  on  Saturday  afternoon. 
There's  such  a  lot  to  do,  what  with  giving  up  this 
flat.  I  almost  wish  now  that  I'd  settled  to  go  to 
Bath  first.  Only  I'm  not  sure  that  Aunt  Matty 
would  not  have  expected  me  to  wear  mourning!" 

There  was  silence.  Joan  found  it  difficult  to  talk 
to  Gillian  when  she  was  in  this  satirical  mood. 

At  last  she  said:  "I'm  sorry  you're  going  so 
soon.  I've  hardly  seen  anything  of  you.  And  the 
other  night  when  you  came  Paul  simply  monopolised 
you.  And — I — I  am  your  friend,  Jill!" 

"My  dear  Joan,  for  goodness'  sake  don't  be 
jealous!" 

Gillian  was  lying  almost  full  length  on  the  sofa, 
and  the  bright  firelight  played  on  her  warm  rose- 
coloured  dress,  and  lit  up  her  small,  pale,  sensitive 
face. 

"I  have  felt  jealous  of  Paul,"  said  Joan,  "he  has 
no  right  to  take  you  away  from  me."  She  spoke 
resentfully,  turning  her  face  from  Gillian,  for  now 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"You're  talking  nonsense!"  cried  Gillian  angrily, 
"you  have  no  business  to  come  here  and  say  such 
things  to  me!  Taking  me  away  from  you,  indeed! 
He  is  just  as  much  my  cousin  as  you  are.  What  silly 
ideas  you  have,  Joan !" 

"But  ...  he  drove  home  with  you.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  why  on  earth  shouldn't  he?" 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  79 

"He  said  I  wasn't  to  bother  you.  .  .  ." 

"I  wish  you'd  take  his  advice  then.  Look  here, 
Joan,  I  don't  want  to  quarrel  with  you,  but  I've 
really  got  a  most  awful  lot  to  worry  me  just  now  I" 

"Oh,  I  know  you  have,  Jill.  I'm  most  awfully 
sorry  for  you.  I  only  wish  I  could  help  you.  I 
hate  your  going  off  alone  like  this.  And  Paul  has 
been  so  unkind.  He  made  out  that  you  didn't  want 
me  here  at  all!" 

"I  shouldn't  have  asked  you  if  I  hadn't  wanted  to 
see  you,"  said  Gillian,  taking  a  silver  box  from  the 
table  and  extracting  a  cigarette  which  she  lit  and 
began  to  smoke.  "If  Paul  told  you  that,  he  had  no 
right  to  do  so." 

"I  sometimes  think,"  said  Joan  slowly,  "that  Paul 
has  fallen  in  love  with  you." 

When  the  words  were  out  of  her  mouth  she  felt 
almost  horrified  at  her  own  hardihood.  Gillian  was 
inclined  to  be  angry  as  it  was.  Perhaps  this  sugges- 
tion would  put  a  match  to  the  flame. 

For  a  moment  Gillian  did  not  speak. 

"You  have  a  perfectly  diseased  imagination,"  she 
said  at  last  in  cold,  cutting  tones.  "And  I  wish  you 
would  keep  your  silly  fancies  to  yourself.  Why 
shouldn't  Paul  see  me  home  ?  We  have  always  been 
excellent  friends."  She  frowned. 

"You  know  Paul  never  puts  himself  out  for  any- 
body. Mother  says  he  seems  to  dislike  girls.  She's 
awfully  anxious  he  should  marry  Lady  Blanche 
Ethan." 

"Paul  will  choose  for  himself  when  the  time 
comes,  you  may  depend  upon  that,"  said  Gillian,  who 
feared  no  rival  in  Lady  Ferner's  fair-haired  younger 
daughter.  "I  strongly  advise  you  not  to  interfere 
with  him  and  his  concerns.  Men  don't  like  it, 
Joan.  He  is  sure  to  resent  it  if  you  keep  a  watch 
upon  his  movements." 


80  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

Joan  flushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  She  had 
not  been  able  to  resist  the  impulse  of  curiosity  that 
had  prompted  her  to  go  to  the  window  and  watch 
Gillian  drive  away  with — as  she  had  feared — 
Paul. 

She  changed  the  subject,  for  clearly  this  was  one 
upon  which  Gillian  was  not  inclined  to  speak  tem- 
perately; she  was  showing  annoyance  and  contempt, 
and  her  words  had  made  Joan  smart.  She  felt  that 
she  had  been  small  and  petty  and  jealous.  .  .  . 

"Does  Deborah  know  you're  going  away?" 

At  the  mention  of  Deborah,  Gillian's  face  changed 
and  grew  hard. 

"Yes,"  she  said  shortly. 

"She's  written  then?  I  thought  she  hadn't  writ- 
ten for  ages." 

Joan  was  utterly  ignorant  of  any  definite  breach 
with  Miss  Venning. 

"No,  she  didn't  write!     She  came!" 

"Came  to  see  you!  And  is  she  very  unhappy 
about  you?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Gillian  in  the  same  curt 
tone.  "I  didn't  ask  her." 

Joan  was  jealously  suspicious  of  this  sudden,  mys- 
terious recrudescence  of  Deborah — Deborah,  who 
for  so  long  had  been  High  Priestess  in  the  Temple, 
and  who  so  strangely  preferred  in  these  days  to  tend 
bulbs  and  roses  in  a  Surrey  garden. 

"Did  she  look  very  pretty?" 

"Much  as  usual,"  replied  Gillian  indifferently. 

Joan  said:  "Paul  never  admired  her,  you  know. 
He  thought  she  was  painted." 

Joan  longed  to  hear  more  details  of  this  interview, 
why  Deborah  had  come,  and  when,  and  what  she 
had  said.  There  must  have  been  an  unexpected  rap- 
prochement, for  she  felt  certain  that  of  late  years 
there  had  been  a  coolness  if  not  an  estrangement  be- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  81 

tween  these  two  friends.  A  fear  filled  her  heart  that 
perhaps,  after  all,  Deborah  would  accompany  Gil- 
lian abroad.  .  .  .  Still,  it  was  only  natural  that  Mrs. 
Driscoll's  friends  should  crowd  round  her  now,  to 
support  her  and  show  their  sympathy  in  this  time 
of  trial.  It  was  only  natural  that  Deborah  should 
forget  any  petty  quarrel  and  rally  to  her  friend's 
side.  .  .  . 

But  Gillian  was  evidently  not  disposed  to  be  com- 
municative on  the  subject;  she  appeared  disinclined 
to  discuss  Miss  Venning,  just  as  she  had  appeared 
disinclined  to  discuss  Paul.  .  .  .  The  only  thing  that 
seemed  to  interest  her  was  the  prospect  of  her  ap- 
proaching departure.  It  held  for  her  no  pain  of 
parting,  only  an  immense  relief,  as  if  she  were  about 
to  free  herself  from  unendurable  fetters.  Joan  felt 
that  this  attitude  was  quite  cruel.  She  was  suffering 
at  the  thought  of  Gillian's  departure ;  she  would  like 
to  have  felt  that  her  pain  was  in  some  sense  shared. 
But  this  affair  of  the  divorce  had  seemed  to  turn  Gil- 
lian into  stone;  she  seemed  insensible  to  any  pain. 
And  if  she  had  cared  for  Paul,  surely,  surely  she 
would  not  go  away  like  this,  as  if  she  were  thankful 
to  go.  Was  she  unkind  and  sharp  to  Paul  too? 
Was  this  perhaps  the  reason  of  his  gloom,  his 
strange,  morose  melancholy? 

When  she  rose  to  go  Joan  put  her  arms  timidly 
round  Gillian.  "Do  write  as  often  as  you  can,  Jill," 
she  said. 

"I  never  can  find  anything  to  say  in  letters,"  said 
Gillian.  "It  will  take  me  all  my  time  to  write  to  the 
aunts." 

"But  just  to  say  how  you  are — that  you  have  ar- 
rived." 

"I'm  sure  to  arrive,  but  if  there's  a  railway  acci- 
dent you'll  see  it  in  the  papers.  And  I'm  always 
quite  well.  I'm  quite  vulgarly  healthy." 


82  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"And  then  I  shall  want  to  know  dreadfully  where 
you  are " 

"Oh,  well,  that's  soon  said.  I'll  send  you  a  pic- 
ture postcard." 

"I  hate  picture  postcards  I" 

"Well,  postcards  without  pictures  then!  You're 
very  hard  to  please !"  She  laughed,  and  then  bent 
down  and  kissed  Joan.  "Give  my  love  to  Cousin 
Janet.  And  I  hope  to  hear  soon  of  your  engagement 
to  Captain  Grant." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  like  him  at  all,"  said  Joan, 
"he's  got  red  hair." 

Gillian  laughed. 

"And  then— he's  Paul's  friend." 

"So  much  the  better." 

As  she  passed  through  the  hall,  Joan  saw  a  letter 
lying  on  the  polished  oak  table.  It  was  addressed 
to  Mrs.  Driscoll  in  Paul's  handwriting.  There 
was  no  mistaking  that  neat,  scholarly  hand.  Joan 
reddened  as  she  saw  it;  she  felt  almost  as  if  she  had 
been  prying.  .  .  .  Then  jealousy  seized  her  tooth 
and  claw.  .  .  .  Why  was  he  writing  to  Jill?  Had 
they  some  secret  understanding  from  which  they 
were  purposely  excluding  her?  What  could  be  in  the 
letter?  And  what  would  Jill  find  to  say  in  reply — 
she  who  had  just  acknowledged  that  she  could  never 
think  of  anything  to  say  in  letters?  She  wouldn't 
send  Paul  picture  postcards.  As  Joan  went  down 
in  the  lift  the  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  making 
them  burn  and  smart ;  she  choked  back  a  sob.  Gil- 
lian had  been  really  unkind  to  her  to-day.  She  had 
been  in  one  of  her  queer  moods,  reserved,  inclined  to 
be  irritable  and  angry.  What  did  it  all  mean?  And 
now  Paul  was  writing  to  her.  He  must  have  writ- 
ten to  her  indeed  the  moment  he  got  back.  Was 
Jill  expecting  to  hear  from  him? 

The  letter  was  brought  to  Gillian  just  after  Joan 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  83 

had  gone.  She  smiled  as  she  took  it  up.  "Joan 
must  have  seen  it,"  she  thought.  Then  she  was 
angry  with  herself  because  the  surmise  had  disturbed 
her,  because  there  should  be  anything  between  her- 
self and  Paul  that  Joan — that  all  the  world — might 
not  know.  .  .  .  "Joan  will  be  more  jealous  than 
ever,  now,"  she  thought  as  she  opened  the  letter. 
It  began  "My  dear,  dear  Gillian"  She  saw  that 
there  were  two  whole  sheets  closely  written.  ,  .  . 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  was  the  first  love-letter  she  had  received  from 
Paul  Pallant,  and  as  she  sat  there  alone,  reading 
it  by  the  fire,  something  of  its  warmth  seemed  to 
reach  and  touch  her  heart.  And  again  she  experi- 
enced the  conviction,  strengthened  anew  by  those 
passionate  written  words,  that  it  was  wrong  for  her 
to  listen  to  words  of  love,  just  as  wrong,  in  fact,  as 
it  would  have  been  for  her  to  do  so  in  the  days  be- 
fore the  law  had  cut  in  twain  the  knot  that  bound 
her  to  Aylmer  Driscoll. 

Gillian  as  a  young  happy  wife  had  formed  few 
friendships.  She  had  had  but  little  opportunity  in- 
deed for  forming  them.  Her  own  little  world  had 
sufficed.  There  had  been  Aylmer  monopolising  all 
that  first  year,  a  possessive  jealous  Aylmer  who 
ardently  adored  her.  Then  there  had  come  the 
child  to  share  with  him  the  love  of  Gillian.  There 
had  been  room  for  little  else.  Deborah,  the  Pal- 
lants,  the  two  old  aunts  in  Bath,  had  but  hovered  on 
the  threshold  of  a  world  that  held  only  husband  and 
child.  Aylmer  at  work,  Aylmer  idle  (as  only  the 
poet  can  be  idle  in  days  that  lack  inspiration), 
Aylmer  loving  and  exacting,  then  Aylmer  bored,  in- 
different, and  socially  occupied,  drifting  on  into 
Aylmer  the  Changed.  That  a  man  who  had  cared 
so  passionately  should  all  at  once  cease  to  care  at 
all,  had  utterly  confused  for  Gillian  all  the  issues  of 
life,  depriving  them  of  firm  foundation.  Aylmer  and 
Deborah — these  two  had  in  turn  possessed  all  her 
confidence  and  almost  all  her  love.  They  had  be- 
trayed her.  .  .  .  The  Pallants,  Paul  and  Joan,  were 
striving  assiduously  to  occupy  those  empty  dream- 
haunted  places,  and  she  had  tried  with  equal  energy 

84 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  85 

to  ciose  the  gates  of  those  abodes  upon  them.  She 
would  not  even  admit  to  herself  that  she  was  begin- 
ning to  care  for  Paul  Pallant.  But  his  caress  had 
stirred  across  her  cold  and  chilly  solitudes;  she  had 
permitted  it,  surrendering  herself  to  the  passing  pas- 
sion of  it,  and  then  afterwards  she  had  bitterly 
blamed  herself  for  doing  so.  She  had  felt  thankful 
and  relieved  when  Joan  announced  that  Paul  had 
returned  to  Aldershot. 

Her  palace  of  former  days  had  fallen  into  ruins 
as  though  crumbled  by  an  earthquake.  She  must  go 
away  and  build  up  the  bricks  and  set  about  making 
a  new  life  for  herself.  Other  women  had  done  it 
successfully,  had  learned  at  last  the  secrets  of  peace 
and  tranquillity  beyond  the  sphere  of  actual  human 
happiness.  She  could  surely  learn  to  do  this,  too, 
although  she  was  still  so  young.  Young?  She  felt 
at  times  incredibly  old.  She  could  never  trust  love 
again,  no  matter  how  splendid  the  guise  he  wore,  no 
matter  how  desirably  he  presented  himself  to  her. 
Love  could  never  deceive  her  again.  .  .  . 

But  in  spite  of  herself  the  dark  beauty  of  Paul 
Pallant's  face  haunted  her.  She  heard  again  his 
words,  "Dear  heart,  how  I  love  you!"  They  had 
melted  her  stoniness;  they  had  touched  her  wound 
with  soft  and  healing  fingers.  .  .  .  Only  she  would 
not  let  herself  dream  of  Paul.  She  belonged  still 
in  some  horrible  fashion  to  Aylmer — Aylmer  who 
did  not  want  her  any  more,  who  had  ceased  utterly 
to  love  her.  How  could  she  love  and  marry  another 
man  while  Aylmer  lived?  Even  when  he  married 
Deborah — if  he  ever  did  such  a  thing — she  would 
still  feel  as  if  she  were  his  wife. 

Another  picture  rose  before  her — Deborah  stimu- 
lating, encouraging,  inspiring  Aylmer  in  his  work. 
.  .  .  She  remembered  even  now  the  criticism  in  a 
leading  London  newspaper  that  had  sent  him  fleeing 


86  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

into  Surrey  a  year  after  the  child's  death.  "Inspira- 
tion seems  suddenly  to  have  failed  Mr.  Aylmer  Dris- 
coll.  This  book  is  only  a  weak  repetition  of  his 
former  work.  He  plagiarises  himself  and  trusts  to 
his  public's  inattention  and  lack  of  memory." 

Yet — was  it  not  absurd  to  think  that  a  mere  re- 
view could  so  change  the  destinies  of  two  people? 
//  n'y  a  que  la  verite  qui  blesse,  and  Aylmer  had  no 
doubt  been  sharply  pricked  by  the  truth  of  that  para- 
graph of  cheap  printing.  It  had  confirmed  perhaps 
his  own  fears.  Inspiration  had  failed.  Gillian  had 
ceased  to  inspire.  He  could  never  again  touch  the 
heights  of  the  Gillian  sonnets,  so  cordially  detested 
by  Paul.  Yes,  his  best  work  had  been  written  for 
her,  had  been  laid  at  her  feet — there  was  no  doubt 
of  that — in  the  beautiful  days  of  their  engagement, 
their  happy  marriage.  But  now — inspiration  had 
failed.  She  herself  had  known  and  realised  it  long 
before  the  anonymous  reviewer  happened  upon  the 
unfortunate  truth.  His  work  had  seemed  to  her 
just  then  such  a  secondary  thing  in  the  face  of  the 
immense  loss  of  her  baby.  How  could  he  write 
poetry  at  such  a  time?  She  had  never  been  able  to 
understand  the  writing  of  In  Memoriam.  If  Tenny- 
son had  really  loved  Arthur  Hallam,  would  he  have 
taken  the  whole  world  into  his  intimate  confidence 
so  soon?  Or  was  everything  to  the  poet  mere 
"copy"  ?  Death  and  sorrow,  heart-breaking,  nerve- 
wracking  sorrow  that  tore  your  heart  in  two — even 
love  that  should  be  too  sacred  for  speech — were  all 
these  things  but  base  metal  to  be  transmuted  into 
gold? 

Oh,  from  the  first  she  had  wished  that  their  very 
love  might  be  a  secret,  silent,  hidden  thing.  She 
had  longed  to  say,  "Don't  write  about  our  love, 
Aylmer,"  but  she  had  not  dared.  The  beauty  of  his 
words  held  her,  the  music  of  them,  the  splendour. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  87 

.  .  .  Then  she  had  felt  an  immense  pride  in  the 
world's  recognition,  the  world's  praise.  .  .  .  But 
her  sorrow,  no — he  must  not  touch  that,  lest  it 
should  stab  her  wound  to  a  new  unendurable  agony. 
He  wrote  of  it,  and  Gillian  felt  her  heart  turn  to 
stone.  ...  If  there  had  ever  been  any  sensible 
diminution  of  her  own  love  for  him  it  had  been  then 
when  he  sang  aloud  of  her  sacred  grief.  .  .  . 

She,  wrapped  up  in  her  grief,  confused  and  be- 
wildered like  a  child,  had  ceased  to  inspire.  He  had 
turned  to  Deborah — a  sunny  picture  of  tranquillity 
in  a  flower  setting.  The  Garden  of  Delight  was 
published  in  the  following  spring,  and  a  chorus  of 
praise  greeted  the  new  venture.  Its  sale  eclipsed  all 
Aylmer's  previous  books. 

"I'm  really  quite  grateful  to  little  Miss  Yenning 
for  giving  me  the  freedom  of  her  garden,"  he  had 
said  gaily  to  Gillian. 

And  Gillian  had  said  in  a  strained  cold  tone — 
even  then  she  suspected  nothing — "I'm  sure  it  will 
succeed.  Gardens  are  all  the  fashion.  Is  the  front- 
ispiece one  of  Deborah's  own  photographs?" 

Perhaps  it  was  then  that  a  secret  tormenting  envy 
of  Deborah  first  assailed  her.  There  was  something 
brave  and  wholesome  and  strong  in  the  personality 
of  that  girl  gardener.  Something  that  spoke  of  free- 
dom, of  fresh  winds  sweeping  over  Surrey  heaths 
and  commons,  of  dancing  shadow  and  sunlight  pat- 
terning the  North  Downs.  And  she — what  was  she 
but  a  sickly  woman  who  could  not  throw  off  the 
chains  of  a  consuming  grief? 

"Yes,  Miss  Venning  took  it,"  Aylmer  had  replied 
carelessly,  "she  is  a  very  clever  little  photographer." 

As  she  sat  there  with  Paul's  letter  in  her  hand  she 
went  over  the  little  story,  tracing  it  link  by  link  in 
all  its  piteous  futility  and  failure.  In  all  those  years 
she  had  not  thought  of  Paul  at  all.  He  and  Joan 


88  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

had  seemed  mere  phantom  figures;  even  her  friend- 
ship with  Joan  had  not  been  at  all  an  intimate  one. 
She  could  have  wept  anew  now  at  the  pitiless  havoc 
wrought  by  Deborah  Venning. 

Gillian  did  not  see  Paul  again  before  she  left  Eng- 
land. The  letter  told  her  he  had  had  a  slight  acci- 
dent to  his  foot  which  kept  him  a  prisoner  in  his  own 
quarters.  He  begged  her  to  put  off  her  departure 
for  a  few  days  in  order  that  he  might  see  her  again. 
But  she  desired  above  all  things  to  avoid  such  a 
meeting.  She  shrank  from  a  definite  understanding 
with  Paul.  He  made  her  feel  weak  when  she  was 
in  his  presence.  She  felt  certain  that  if  she  consented 
to  see  him  again  he  would  extract  a  definite  promise 
from  her.  And  she  wanted  to  be  free — quite  free; 
to  turn  a  fresh  page  amid  new  surroundings,  new 
people.  And  already  she  knew  that  she  was  no 
longer  wholly  indifferent  to  Paul.  He  loved  her,  and 
the  love  he  offered  her  was  one  she  could  rely  upon 
and  trust.  There  was  something  secure  and  strong 
about  him;  something  rocky  and  unchanging.  She 
knew  that  in  his  hands  she  would  be  safe.  The 
thought  attracted  her.  He  could  give  her  all  the 
things  she  had  missed.  Nevertheless  she  shrank 
from  giving  him  an  answer,  an  assurance  that  when 
she  was  free  she  would  be  his  wife.  That  was  what 
his  letter  plainly  demanded  of  her  in  clear  terms. 
He  loved  her,  and  if  necessary  he  would  sacrifice  his 
career  in  order  that  he  might  marry  her.  She  was 
more  to  him  than  all  the  world.  "Do  you  think," 
he  wrote,  "that  these  last  four  years  have  meant 
nothing  to  me?  If  I  hardly  ever  saw  you,  it  was 
because  I  would  not  see  you.  I  have  loved  you  from 
the  first  moment  of  our  first  meeting." 

No,  she  could  not  see  him  again ;  she  felt  glad  to 
think  that  he  could  not  come  to  London.  She  would 
hasten  her  preparations  and  leave  a  little  earlier 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  89 

than  she  had  said.  She  would  not  even  tell  Joan 
when  she  was  going.  Life  had  resolved  itself  for 
the  moment  into  a  harmless  scheme  to  outwit  the 
Pallant  family.  They  seemed  to  be  pressing  her  on 
all  sides. 

Gillian  left  town  on  Friday  evening  and  journeyed 
to  Folkestone,  where  she  spent  the  night.  Before 
leaving  for  Paris  by  the  morning  boat  she  scribbled 
a  little  note  to  Lady  Pallant  informing  her  of  her 
departure.  That  would  be  a  bomb-shell  for  the 
Pallants  on  Saturday  evening!  She  pictured  iron- 
ically Joan's  tears,  Lady  Pallant's  slighted  dignity  at 
not  having  been  informed  before  the  event,  and  last 
of  all  Paul's  wounded  anger.  Yes,  Paul  would  learn 
through  his  own  people  that  she  had  gone.  It  would 
show  him  how  little  she  regarded  him ;  how  free  she 
felt.  It  would  break  even  the  slight  bond  between 
them ;  it  would  prevent  him  from  attaching  too  much 
importance  to  those  repented  kisses. 

As  the  steamer  neared  Boulogne  she  saw  that  the 
sun  was  shining  on  the  clustered  red  roofs  and  upon 
the  green  surrounding  landscape.  The  sky  was  quite 
blue  above  the  town.  She  lunched  and  then  left  for 
Paris  by  the  next  train.  Even  now  she  was  afraid 
that  Paul  might  somehow  learn  of  her  departure 
and  follow  her. 

But  his  letter  reposed  in  the  little  handbag  she 
carried  on  her  wrist,  and  more  than  once  during  her 
journey  through  the  flat  plains  of  France,  guarded 
by  those  endless  avenues  of  still  leafless  poplars,  she 
took  it  out  and  read  it  through  from  beginning  to 
end.  She  might  put  the  seas  between  herself  and 
Paul  Pallant,  but  his  love  surrounded  and  enveloped 
her;  she  could  not  shake  herself  free  from  the  com- 
forting remembrance  of  it.  Her  heart  questioned 
if  she  really  desired  that  freedom  she  was  going 
forth  to  seek. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SPRING  had  already  come  to  Rome  when  Gillian 
reached  that  city  early  in  March.  The  air  was 
mild;  the  skies  were  wonderfully  soft  and  blue.  She 
established  herself  at  first  in  a  furnished  apartment 
in  the  Via  Sistina,  not  daring  as  yet  to  face  the  stir 
of  hotel  life.  She  shrank  from  contact  with 
strangers  until  this  first  sense  of  being  utterly  and 
completely  alone  had  passed  off  a  little.  It  would 
be  easy  enough  to  move  later  on.  The  case  of 
Driscoll  v.  Driscoll  was  still  too  fresh  in  the  public 
mind.  Her  very  name  would,  she  felt,  excite  com- 
ment among  the  English  colony  in  Rome.  "The 
wife  of  Aylmer  Driscoll,  the  poet — you  know,  she 
divorced  him,"  she  could  almost  hear  those  words 
of  shame  testifying  to  her  failure.  Raw  and  sensi- 
tive, with  her  wound  still  so  recent,  Gillian  kept  very 
much  to  herself  in  those  first  days.  She  spent  her 
time  diligently  sight-seeing. 

A  green  glimpse  of  Monte  Mario  visible  from  her 
windows  comforted  her  with  thoughts  of  the  quiet 
country.  The  sun  set  there  in  soft  tones  of  crimson 
and  gold,  not  very  brilliant  but  clear  with  pure  lumi- 
nous colour,  making  the  obelisk  on  the  Piazza 
Trinita  look  like  an  inky  finger.  The  street  with  its 
busy  little  shops  interested  her.  Antiquary  shops, 
jewellers,  lace-vendors,  vied  with  each  other  in  pro- 
ducing things  likely  to  attract  the  passing  tourist;  in 
other  windows  picture  postcards,  Roman  pearls  and 
sashes,  and  cheap  marble  reproductions  seemed  to 
renew  the  innocent  rivalry.  In  the  afternoon  crowds 
of  carriages  of  all  kinds  and  descriptions  passed  by 
on  their  way  to  the  Pincio  and  the  Borghese  Gar- 
dens. The  weather  was  brilliantly  fine,  and  Gillian 

90 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  91 

enjoyed  the  sunshine,  the  warmer  climate ;  it  revived 
and  refreshed  her.  She  was  already  much  less 
nervous  than  when  she  left  London. 

But  she  did  not  enjoy  her  solitude  many  weeks. 
There  appeared  in  Rome  a  certain  Lady  Lucy  Fer- 
rard  with  her  younger  daughter  Patience.  The 
elder  one  was  already  married  to  Marchese  della 
Meldola,  and  it  was  to  be  near  her  for  a  little  that 
they  had  come  to  Rome  on  their  way  home  from 
Egypt,  where  they  had  been  spending  the  winter. 

Lady  Lucy  Ferrard  was  a  brisk  purposeful  woman 
who  belonged  to  an  old  Catholic  family.  Her  views 
were  rigid,  and  she  was  old-fashioned  in  many  ways. 
Patience  Ferrard  was  a  girl  of  nineteen,  soft,  fair, 
and  malleable.  Her  sister,  Marchesa  Meldola,  was 
a  few  years  older,  and  was  already  the  mother  of  a 
beautiful  little  boy.  Both  sisters  were  pretty  in  a 
soft  English  way,  lacking  perhaps  in  individuality 
and  not  overburdened  with  intelligence  or  education. 
Lady  Lucy  had  heard  nothing  of  Gillian's  divorce 
when  she  met  her  one  day  walking  in  the  Corso.  It 
was  a  hot  day,  and  the  heat  had  deepened  Lady 
Lucy's  naturally  rich  colouring  to  a  conspicuous  pur- 
ple. She  was  even  panting  a  little  and  wondering 
whether  she  should  walk  home  to  the  hotel  or  take 
a  carozra.  Both  ladies  were  alone  when  this  en- 
counter took  place. 

"My  dear  Gillian — I  had  no  idea  you  were  in 
Rome!"  cried  Lady  Lucy,  holding  out  a  fat  hand 
gloved  tightly  in  white  kid. 

Gillian  flushed. 

"I  haven't  been  here  very  long,"  she  said. 

Unconscious  of  danger,  Lady  Lucy  pursued: 

"I  hope  Mr.  Driscoll  is  well?  Where  are  you 
staying?  You  must  both  come  and  have  luncheon 
with  us!" 

"I  am  alone  here,"  said  Gillian. 


92  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"Alone?"  echoed  Lady  Lucy  in  astonishment. 

"Yes."  Gillian's  voice  dropped.  She  looked  for 
a  moment  wildly  around  her  as  if  searching  for  an 
avenue  of  escape.  Then  as  if  recognising  the  futility 
of  the  contemplated  manoeuvre,  she  added  simply, 
"We  are  not — together  any  more.  I  have  divorced 
him!'; 

"Divorced  him !"  repeated  Lady  Lucy  incredu- 
lously. My  dear  child,  what  a  dreadful  thing  to  do  1" 

She  stared  at  Gillian  in  horrified  amazement. 

"Is — is  it  so  dreadful?"  Her  face  whitened;  she 
looked  as  if  she  were  going  to  cry. 

"Of  course  it  is  dreadful!"  said  Lady  Lucy  with 
brisk  decision.  "And  at  your  age!  Why,  you  can 
hardly  be  any  older  than  Imogen!  You  shock  me 
inexpressibly.  You  speak,  too,  as  if  you  did  not  in 
the  least  realise  what  an  awful  step  you  have  taken. 
To  separate  yourself  legally  from  the  man  you  have 
married.  .  .  ." 

Her  keen  eyes  searched  Mrs.  Driscoll's  face. 

"He  wished  it  so  much,"  said  Gillian,  and  her 
lips  trembled  as  she  spoke.  "He  begged  me  to  do  it 
— I  should  never  have  dreamed  of  divorcing  him — 
if  he  hadn't  wished  it.  I  have  always  been  weak 
whenever  I  have  seen  any  one  wanting  anything — 
anything  it  was  in  my  power  to  give !" 

"Why  did  he  wish  for  it?"  inquired  Lady  Lucy 
severely. 

They  had  walked  now  as  far  as  the  Via  Condotti 
and  were  going  towards  the  Piazza  di  Spagna. 

"He  didn't  say,"  said  Gillian;  "I  could  only  sup- 
pose it  was  because  he  was  tired  of  me — and  wanted 
to  marry  some  one  else." 

"In  our  Church  such  a  thing  would  be  utterly  im- 
possible," said  Lady  Lucy. 

Gillian  walked  silently  by  her  side  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  93 

"I  feel  extremely  sorry  for  you,  Gillian,"  said 
Lady  Lu,cy  presently  in  a  more  kindly  tone.  "You 
must  come  and  see  us.  I  must  ask  you,  however,  not 
to  discuss  it  with  Patience — it  would  be  better  not 
to  mention  it  to  her  at  all.  Of  course  now  that 
Imogen  is  married  she  is  permitted  more  liberty.  .  .  . 
I  have  kept  my  girls  very  sheltered.  We  came  here 
on  purpose  to  see  a  little  of  Imogen  and  Guido 
Meldola." 

She  did  not  add  that  one  of  her  principal  motives 
for  coming  to  Rome  was  to  endeavour  to  engineer 
a  marriage  between  Patience  and  Guido  della  Mel- 
dola's  half-brother  Giacomo.  The  winter  in  Egypt 
had  proved  fruitless  from  a  matrimonial  point  of 
view,  and  the  Ferrards  were  not  at  all  well  off. 
Lady  Lucy,  who  combined  a  good  deal  of  worldli- 
ness  with  her  piety,  held  the  opinion  that  Patience's 
type  was  not  one  that  improved  with  years.  It  was 
at  its  prettiest  in  extreme  youth  when  the  fair,  deli- 
cate colouring  had  not  begun  to  lose  its  charm.  It 
behoved  Patience  to  marry  young,  and  Giacomo 
della  Meldola  was  an  even  better  parti  than  his 
elder  half-brother,  as  his  mother  had  brought  into 
the  family  some  wealthy  and  valuable  property  in 
the  Abruzzi. 

When  a  few  days  later  Gillian  was  invited  to  dine 
with  them  at  one  of  the  immense  new  hotels  in  the 
Via  Veneto  she  found  the  party  was  a  purely  family 
affair.  It  consisted  of  Lady  Lucy  Ferrard,  Patience, 
Imogen,  and  Guido  della  Meldola,  and  a  tall,  thin 
dark  young  man  who  proved  to  be  Giacomo. 

He  spoke  English  well  and  fluently,  for  he  had 
been  educated  at  Beaumont  and  since  then  had  been 
more  than  once  in  London.  Although  he  was  only 
twenty-two  years  of  age  he  looked  older,  and  he 
was  excessively  handsome  in  a  way  that  was  quite 
new  to  Gillian.  He  was  a  typical  Roman,  with 


94  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

finely-cut  features  and  eyes  that  only  just  missed 
being  too  beautiful  for  a  man.  Patience  secretly 
adored  him,  had  guessed  her  mother's  plan  of  cam- 
paign, yet  despaired  in  her  heart  of  attaining  to  a 
fate  that  seemed  to  her  so  eminently  desirable.  For 
Giacomo  had  so  far  displayed  no  intention  of  falling 
in  love  with  the  docile,  sweet-looking  English  girl. 

The  family  of  Meldola  were  Black  in  their  sym- 
pathies, and  Giacomo  had  been  very  carefully 
brought  up  by  his  mother  who  adored  him.  His 
father  had  not  long  survived  his  second  marriage, 
and  this  only  child  had  been  very  dear  to  the  Mar- 
chesa,  who  had  long  passed  her  first  youth  when 
he  was  born. 

Giacomo  was  an  officer  in  the  Italian  cavalry. 
Upon  their  first  introduction  Gillian  thought  she 
had  never  seen  any  one  so  handsome.  "A  beautiful 
boy,"  she  called  him  to  herself.  With  regular  fea- 
tures, dark  lambent  eyes,  and  thick,  densely  black 
hair  with  the  merest  hint  of  a  wave  in  it,  he  was 
tall,  graceful,  and  slenderly  built,  and  looked  per- 
haps his  best  in  uniform.  Their  eyes  met  across 
the  dinner-table,  and  Giacomo,  the  ambition  and 
despair  of  Roman  mothers,  was  literally  swept  off 
his  feet. 

The  tragic  experience  of  the  past  had  given  Gil- 
lian a  slightly  pathetic  look  which  was  enhanced  by 
the  contour  of  her  features,  the  naturally  wistful 
expression  of  her  eyes.  Strange,  sad  eyes  that  held 
Giacomo  while  he  was  present  and  haunted  him 
after  he  had  gone  away.  She  made  Patience  look 
colourless  and  immature — not  that  he  had  ever 
thought  seriously  of  Patience.  There  was  a  far 
more  dangerous  pretendante  then  sojourning  in 
Rome  in  the  person  of  Miss  Grace  Widness,  the 
charming  and  beautiful  young  daughter  of  the  Amer- 
ican millionaire,  Mr.  Homer  S.  Widness.  Giacomo 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  95 

was  aware  that  his  mother  regarded  with  favour 
the  claims  of  Grace  Widness.  She  was  very  fair, 
with  hair  like  spun  silk  and  clear  eyes  of  forget- 
me-not  blue.  She  was  a  Catholic,  highly  educated 
and  well  brought  up,  and  her  dowry  would  probably 
be  counted  by  tens  of  thousands.  She  was  an  only 
child,  and  the  old  Marchesa  felt  that  she  was  a  girl 
to  whom  the  future  of  Giacomo  could  most  safely 
and  desirably  be  entrusted.  But  she  was  too  wise 
to  say  anything  to  hurry  on  events,  and  she  gave 
her  son  no  definite  information  as  to  the  trend  of 
her  hopes.  It  will  thus  be  seen  that  Patience,  igno- 
rant of  the  existence  of  Miss  Widness,  had  even 
slenderer  grounds  for  hope  than  she  herself  was 
aware  of. 

Gillian  felt  attracted  by  the  homage  in  the  young 
man's  eyes.  To  many  women  there  is  attraction  in 
the  very  mystery  of  a  man  who  belongs  to  a  dif- 
ferent race  and  country  from  their  own.  He  was 
the  first  Italian  she  had  met,  and  for  that  very  rea- 
son she  felt  interested  in  him.  There  was  some- 
thing in  his  eager,  simple  vivacity  that  appealed  to 
her.  He  possessed  that  curious  combination  of  sim- 
plicity and  subtlety  which  is  so  characteristic  of  the 
Latin.  It  is  difficult  for  the  Anglo-Saxon  to  be 
intellectual  without  being  at  the  same  time  complex. 
But  for  the  Latin  this  is  not  difficult.  With  all  his 
cleverness,  his  knowledge  of  the  world,  there  was 
something  young  and  unspoilt  about  Giacomo.  Gil- 
lian encouraged  him  to  talk,  heard  of  the  years 
passed  at  Beaumont  College,  of  the  subsequent  visits 
to  England,  where  a  cousin  held  a  post  in  the  Em- 
bassy; more  diffidently  too,  he  spoke  of  his  own 
city,  whose  history  he  had  studied  deeply.  He  was 
an  attractive,  sympathetic  companion;  he  made  the 
evening  pass  pleasantly  for  her.  Before  they  parted 
he  had — unknown  to  the  Ferrards — elicited  a  prom- 


96  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

ise  from  her  that  she  would  accompany  him  on  an 
expedition  to  Frascati  on  the  following  day.  His 
American  friends,  the  Widnesses,  with  their  daugh- 
ter were  also  to  be  of  the  party.  He  had  not  in- 
vited any  one  else.  They  were  to  lunch  at  the  hotel, 
and  afterwards  visit  some  of  the  villas.  He  ar- 
ranged to  call  for  her  at  a  certain  hour  in  his  motor. 
Gillian  accepted  gladly ;  she  liked  to  think  they  were 
to  meet  again  so  soon.  She  began  to  think  that  those 
first  days  of  solitude  in  Rome  must  have  been  ex- 
traordinarily dull.  .  . 

On  the  following  morning  he  appeared  alone  in 
his  motor. 

"I  am  going  to  drive  you  myself,"  he  announced, 
smiling. 

"Oh,  I  thought  your  friends  were  coming  too," 
she  said. 

"They  are  going  to  meet  us  at  Frascati.  I  had 
asked  Miss  Widness  to  come  with  us,  but  she  has 
gone  with  her  parents — they  preferred  that  ar- 
rangement." He  pulled  a  wry,  expressive  grimace. 
"Miss  Widness,  as  you  will  see,  is  almost  too  pre- 
cious to  tread  the  ground  of  this  wicked  world.  So 
they  keep  her  up  there — in  an  aeroplane  I"  He 
laughed,  and  pointed  to  the  dark  blue  serene  sky 
that  hung  above  Rome.  "I  am  glad,"  he  added 
simply;  "I  wished  to  have  this  drive  alone  with  you, 
Mrs.  Driscoll." 

Neither  he  nor  the  Widnesses  were  acquainted 
with  Mrs.  Driscoll's  history;  indeed,  if  Giacomo 
considered  the  matter  at  all,  it  is  probable  that  he 
believed  her  to  be  a  young  widow.  Gillian,  without 
the  slightest  wish  to  sail  under  false  colours,  was 
thankful  to  be  with  strangers — people  who  were 
agreeable  and  pleasant  and  to  whom  her  melan- 
choly little  history  was  altogether  unknown.  It  did 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  97 

not  occur  to  her  that  the  young  man,  by  whose  side 
she  was  speeding  so  swiftly  through  the  enchanting 
ways  of  the  Roman  Campagna,  was  already  begin- 
ning to  fall  in  love  with  her.  She  had  never  real- 
ised her  own  beauty  nor  her  own  fascination.  Any 
pride  she  might  have  had  in  her  physical  or  mental 
equipment  had  received  a  severe  blow  from  the 
defalcation  of  Aylmer.  And  she  was  accustomed 
to  the  simple  friendship  that  a  woman,  whether 
married  or  single,  can  enjoy  with  men  in  England. 
As  the  wife  of  a  celebrity  she  had  met  with  a  good 
deal  of  admiration  and  attention,  and  had  never 
valued  them  at  all.  She  had  absolutely  no  knowl- 
edge of  the  Latin  temperament.  And  she  liked 
Giacomo ;  his  gaiety  made  the  remembrance  of  Paul 
Pallant  seem  a  little  melancholy  and  strenuous. 

They  sped  rapidly  across  the  plain,  past  ancient 
tombs,  and  the  massive  ruined  arches  of  the  old 
Roman  aqueduct  beneath  whose  shadows  the  sheep 
were  peacefully  grazing;  past  little  homesteads  and 
villages  where  the  vineyards  were  bright  with  the 
first  young  golden  leaves,  and  farms  red-roofed  and 
white-walled  surrounded  by  blossoming  fruit  trees 
and  olive  groves  of  shining  silver.  Beyond,  the  hills 
lay  as  if  asleep  in  the  sunshine — those  pale,  misty, 
delicately  coloured  Alban  hills  upon  whose  higher 
summits  the  snow  was  still  visible  in  patches  of 
glimmering  white.  And  in  the  valley,  spring  with 
her  gay  garlands  and  blossoming  orchards,  mocked 
at  those  snows. 

In  their  swift  progress  they  passed  without  awak- 
ening many  a  slumbering  carrettiere  droning  across 
the  plain  in  rough,  blue-painted  market  carts.  Some- 
times they  passed  a  little  wayside  inn  with  groups 
of  peasants  sitting  drinking  under  a  pergola  of  bud- 
ding vine. 

Gillian  sat  there  entranced,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 


98  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

delicious  outlines  of  the  hills,  softly  painted  in  tones 
of  blue  and  green  against  a  sky  of  pure  sapphire. 
Once  they  stopped  and  looked  back  upon  Rome  when 
they  had  partly  ascended  the  hill  that  leads  steeply 
to  Frascati.  The  huge  dome  looked  like  a  bubble, 
immense,  almost  transparent,  a  filmy  unsubstantial 
thing.  Monte  Soracte  stood  alone  in  solitary  aloof 
grandeur,  breaking  the  horizon  to  the  north  with 
its  fine  blue  outline  shaped  like  a  crouching  lion 
with  its  head  drooping  upon  its  paws.  The  wide, 
shining  line  of  the  sea  showed  grey  and  gold  to  the 
westward.  High  over  their  heads  a  lark  sang  in 
sustained  rapture.  Here  on  the  higher  slopes  the 
woolly  buds  of  the  vines  as  yet  scarcely  showed  a 
hint  of  delicate  golden  leaf  within. 

"Isn't  it  simply  topping?"  said  Giacomo,  smiling 
and  showing  his  even  white  teeth. 

Gillian  laughed  at  the  modern  slang  expression 
that  sounded  so  strangely  on  alien  lips. 

"Oh,  but  topping,"  she  agreed. 

Impulsively  he  turned  and  caught  her  little  grey- 
gloved  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"You  love  it,  too?"  he  asked,  "our  beautiful 
Rome?" 

She  became  suddenly  serious.  She  realised  that 
he  had  asked  the  question  in  desperate  earnest. 

"Yes,  I  love  it.  One  has  the  feeling  that  one 
belongs,"  she  said  in  her  cold,  tranquil,  unenthu- 
siastic  voice. 

She  had  spoken  simply,  but  he,  subtle  and  intui- 
tive, put  a  personal  interpretation  on  her  words. 

"Who  knows  but  some  day  you  will  belong? 
Rome  will  take  you  prisoner.  I  have  known  of 
people  who  came  for  a  fortnight  and  who  stayed 
twenty  years — thirty  years — until  they  died!" 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  exultantly, 
but  his  dark  eyes  swept  her  with  a  fierce,  almost 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  99 

dangerous  light,  and  he  took  her  hand  in  his  again 
and  held  it  for  a  moment.  "I  am  beginning  to  love 
you,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  held  a  hoarse,  strained 
deep  note  that  startled  her.  "Perhaps — who  knows 
— you  will  be  my  prisoner!" 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,"  she  said  sharply  and  an- 
grily, and  drew  away  her  hand. 

"Why?"  he  said,  hurt  at  her  tone,  "why  shouldn't 
I  love  you?  Is  there  any  reason?" 

Gillian  was  not  at  all  prepared  to  confide  her 
private  affairs  in  the  ear  of  this  attractive  stranger. 
Had  she  yielded  to  her  first  impulse  and  done  so  she 
would  certainly  have  saved  herself  from  cruel  com- 
plications and  hurts  in  the  future.  But  she  pur- 
posely made  an  evasive  answer. 

"It's  always  a  pity  to  love  people  who  could  never 
have  anything  to  give  you  in  return,"  she  said  in  a 
chilling  tone,  and  her  eyes  met  his  squarely.  Oh, 
why  could  she  not  be  permitted  to  forget  just  for 
one  day  that  English  past  that  held  the  dominating 
figure  of  Aylmer  Driscoll?  "Hadn't  we  better  be 
going  on?" 

"If  you  will,"  he  responded  almost  sulkily.  He 
turned  away  from  her  and  took  the  wheel  in  his 
hands.  They  climbed  the  hill  that  led  between  bud- 
ding hedges  to  Frascati.  On  either  side  stretched 
the  brown  vineyards,  decorated  with  a  hint  of  fragile 
gold.  Beyond  the  hedge  a  pear  tree  stood  up  cov- 
ered with  a  mantle  of  snowy  blossom  that  suggested 
bridal  array. 

"I  have  a  little  villa  here,"  said  Giacomo,  per- 
ceiving that  his  talk  of  love  had  been  premature 
and  ill-advised,  and  had  found  no  favour  with  this 
Englishwoman  with  the  dark,  cold  eyes  that  were 
at  once  so  beautiful  and  so  mysteriously  sad.  "Some 
day  when  the  weather  is  warmer  I  will  give  a  din- 
ner-party. You  must  come,  and  we  will  drive  back 


ioo  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

by  moonlight.  Oh,  you  can't  imagine  what  the 
Campagna  looks  like  by  moonlight — a  wide  silver 
sea  with  purple  and  black  shadows  and  little  scarves 
of  mist  that  try  and  hide  themselves  in  the  hollows 
and  look  like  fairies.  You  have  never  seen  it,  have 
you?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Ah,  you  will  say,  too,  that  it  looks  just  like  the 
sea — like  a  strange  Dead  Sea  with  the  tombs — 
those  lonely,  forgotten,  desolate  tombs — rising 
above  the  surface.  And  beyond  lies  the  real  sea 
shining  like  silver." 

She  quoted  softly: 

"The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 
Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere, 

Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 
An  everlasting  wash  of  air — 

Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease." 

"Oh,  I  know  Two  in  the  Campagna"  he  sur- 
prised her  by  saying,  as  they  sped  forward  into  the 
dusty  piazza  through  the  long  avenue  where  innu- 
merable brown  and  happy  children  were  playing. 
"To  me  it  is  one  of  the  most  understandable  of 
Browning's  poems.  All  English  lovers  who  come 
to  Rome  quote  it  to  each  other.  You  must  see  the 
Campagna,  too,  on  a  morning  of  Rome  and  May." 

They  stopped  outside  the  hotel  which  lay  a  little 
below  the  town.  To  reach  it,  Giacomo  had  had  to 
retrace  their  steps  a  little  and  dip  down  a  steep  hill 
to  the  left  of  the  avenue.  Already  in  the  loggia 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Homer  Widness  were  standing 
awaiting  them,  with  their  daughter  Grace,  who 
looked  charmingly  dainty  in  a  white  cloth  coat  and 
skirt  and  a  hat  of  white  felt  with  a  little  blue  wing 
in  it  that  matched  her  clear  innocent  eyes.  Gillian, 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  101 

quite  unconscious  that  Grace  was  now  regarding  her 
a  little  resentfully  as  a  possible  rival  as  well  as  an 
unsuspected  peril,  smilingly  shook  hands  with  them 
all.  She  remembered  afterwards  that  she  had 
thought  Grace  pretty — even  very  pretty  in  that 
studied,  finished  American  way  that  leaves  nothing 
to  chance.  Her  hair  was  beautiful,  golden  and  bur- 
nished, and  it  was  most  perfectly  arranged.  Her 
eyes  were  of  a  clear,  bright  blue,  and  her  com- 
plexion was  delicately  pink  and  white  behind  the 
pretty  white  veil  that  was  fastened  with  such  skill 
around  her  hat.  Gillian  felt  that  the  Widnesses 
must  be  proud  of  their  daughter,  and  she  recalled 
Giacomo's  words  in  which  he  had  described  them 
as  thinking  her  too  precious  to  "tread  the  ground 
of  this  wicked  world!"  She  looked  at  her  almost 
with  envy. 

But  Grace's  thoughts  of  Gillian  were  perhaps  less 
charitable.  She  knew  that  there  was  a  project  on 
foot  for  arranging  a  marriage  between  herself  and 
Giacomo.  Already  she  was  very  deeply  in  love  with 
the  handsome  young  Italian  who  had  been  showing 
her  considerable  attention  all  through  the  winter. 
He  appealed  to  her  young  girl's  imagination;  his 
fresh,  spontaneous,  Latin  gaiety  attracted  her.  She 
felt  jealous  that  he  and  Mrs.  Driscoll  should  have 
had  this  long  drive  alone  together.  They  had  not 
even  brought  a  chauffeur  with  them. 

Luncheon  was  served  in  the  garden  at  a  small 
table  on  the  terrace.  It  was  a  prolonged,  rather 
leisurely  meal.  Once  Mrs.  Widness,  referring  to  a 
recent  audience  of  Pius  X.,  inquired  of  Mrs.  Driscoll 
if  she  were  a  Catholic. 

When  Gillian  replied  quickly  in  the  negative, 
Grace  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  She  knew  old  Mar- 
chesa  Meldola's  views,  strict  and  unchangeable,  with 
regard  to  the  religion  to  which  her  son's  future  wife 


102  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

must  belong.  If  Mrs.  Driscoll  were  not  a  Catholic 
there  was  not  the  slightest  hope  that  Marchesa 
Meldola  would  consent  to  her  marriage  with  Gia- 
como.  Of  other  obstacles  Grace  knew  nothing;  she 
supposed  Gillian  to  be  a  widow — of  some  standing 
perhaps,  since  she  410  longer  wore  any  kind  of 
mourning. 

"I  am  afraid  I  really  know  very  little  about  the 
Catholic  Church,"  said  Gillian  almost  apologetically. 

Oddly  enough  her  aunt's  words  echoed  suddenly, 
almost  warningly  in  her  ears:  "Remember  Elsie 
Smith!"  She  thought  of  this  unimportant  weak- 
chinned  girl  in  whom  Rome  had  wrought  such  great 
and  such  vital  changes,  and  curiously  enough,  to- 
gether with  these  words  of  warning  came  also  the 
remembrance  of  Giacomo's  question  that  morning, 
"Who  knows  but  some  day  you  will  belong?  Rome 
will  take  you  prisoner!" 

"Perhaps  Rome  will  stimulate  your  curiosity  on 
the  subject,"  said  Mrs.  Widness.  "I,"  she  con- 
tinued, "belong  to  one  of  the  oldest  Catholic  fami- 
lies in  Maryland.  We  are  very  proud  of  our  faith." 
She  spoke  with  a  simple  earnestness. 

"And  I,"  said  Giacomo,  "am  black  as  black  I  It 
would  shock  my  dear  mother  very  much  to  think 
of  me  as  of  any  other  colour.  My  father  belonged 
to  the  Guardia  nobile!"  He  flung  back  his  small, 
dark  head  and  laughed. 

"Ah,  your  mother  is  a  real  saint,  Marchese," 
said  Mrs.  Widness. 

"Saints  are  very  hard  sometimes — they  seem  to 
think  perfection  such  an  easy  thing!"  he  said  gaily. 
He  looked  straight  at  Gillian  as  he  spoke.  How 
pretty  she  was  with  her  slim  bare  white  throat,  and 
her  delicate  fragile-looking  hands.  "She  would 
want  to  convert  you  at  once,  Mrs.  Driscoll.  Oh, 
you  would  be  marched  off  to  her  pet  nuns  without 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  103 

delay  for  instruction !  One  does  not  meet  every 
day  with  zeal  like  my  mother's." 

Gillian  was  glad  when  the  conversation  took  a 
more  impersonal  turn.  After  lunch  they  drove  up 
to  see  some  of  the  villas  that  stand  above  the  town, 
and  wandered  idly  through  ilex  woods,  or  stood 
and  gazed  at  the  view  from  sunny  wistaria-hung 
terraces.  The  day  was  warm,  and  the  hill  air  fresh 
and  bracing.  Gillian  kept  near  Mrs.  Widness.  Mr. 
Widness  went  about  alone,  taking  snapshots  desulto- 
rily with  a  small  hand  camera,  and  thus  Grace  was 
left  to  wander  with  Giacomo — under  her  mother's 
consciously  vigilant  eye.  Gillian  felt  some  relief  at 
this  distribution.  Although  she  did  not  in  the  least 
believe  them,  Giacomo's  words,  "I  am  beginning 
to  love  you,"  had  alarmed  her.  Paul's  case  had 
warned  her  that  she  was  still  perhaps  .  .  .  lovable. 
That  love  still  held  for  her  its  slings  and 
arrows.  .  .  . 

"The  Marchesa,"  said  Mrs.  Widness,  "is  a  very 
devout  Catholic." 

"Yes?"  said  Gillian. 

"I  know  her  very  well  indeed,"  continued  Mrs. 
Widness,  "and  I  can  see  that  she's  anxious  now 
about  Giacomo.  He's  her  only  son,  you  know — 
Marchese  Guido  is  her  stepson.  And  he's  not  seri- 
ous enough  in  her  opinion.  She's  inclined  to  think 
he  ought  to  marry  young,  as  she's  got  a  large  for- 
tune of  her  own  and  can  make  him  a  handsome 
allowance,  but  she  wants  to  find  just  the  right  girl 
for  him.  There's  that  Miss  Patience  Ferrard  now 
whose  sister  married  Guido — a  very  pretty,  nice 
girl  and  a  good  Catholic,  but  hardly  a  penny  piece 
to  her  fortune.  Giacomo  is,  of  course,  dependent 
upon  his  mother,  and  she's  a  healthy  woman  still, 
in  the  prime  of  life,  although  they  say  she's  get- 
ting on  for  sixty.  If  she  liked  his  wife  I  know  she 


io4  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

would  treat  him  generously.  I  gather  she  likes 
this  Miss  Ferrard  well  enough,  but  it  seems  she  bores 
Giacomo." 

Her  clear,  vigilant  eyes  were  steadily  fixed  upon 
the  two  young  figures  going  on  ahead  of  them. 
Giacomo,  with  his  dark  head  uncovered,  moving 
with  swinging  strides,  was  talking  and  laughing;  the 
echo  of  his  laughter  reached  them.  And  Grace 
with  face  turned  towards  him  was  looking  up  at  him, 
all  attention  and  admiration. 

"I'm  not  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Widness,  "that  Gia- 
como isn't  taking  a  liking  to  my  Grace !" 

Gillian  felt  the  colour  deepen  in  her  cheeks;  the 
remembrance  of  the  young  Marchese's  eager  ardent 
words  that  morning  made  her  feel  a  little  self-con- 
scious, even  a  little  guilty. 

"Your  Grace  is  a  lovely  girl,  Mrs.  Widness,"  she 
said  quite  simply  and  sincerely. 

"Well,  naturally  we  think  her  quite  lovely,"  said 
Mrs.  Widness  with  a  pleased  smile,  "and  she's  a 
good  girl  and  a  good  Catholic!" 

She  seemed  to  be  unconsciously  summing  up  the 
points  in  Grace's  favour — especially  those  which 
would  appeal  most  forcibly  to  the  very  pious  mother 
of  an  adored  only  son. 

Gillian  began  to  feel  aware  of  very  different 
standards  from  those  which  had  obtained  in  Brock 
Street.  There  the  very  fact  of  becoming  a  Catholic 
was  regarded  almost  as  a  disgrace ;  here  it  appeared 
to  be  the  one  thing  essential  that  a  girl  should  have 
this  faith  and  practise  it  devoutly.  Lost  in  these 
thoughts  to  which  she  was  devoting  an  ironical  atten- 
tion, she  was  scarcely  listening  to  the  sustained  flow 
of  Mrs.  Widness's  conversation. 

"But  young  men  are  the  same  all  the  world  over, 
Mrs.  Driscoll.  They  don't  want  to  settle  down  too 
early.  Maybe  the  right  girl  comes  along  too  soon,. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  105 

before  they  feel  the  need  of  a  wife,  and  they  lose 
her  just  as  much  as  if  she  came  too  late !  Giacomo 
doesn't  strike  me  as  being  exactly  a  marrying  man, 
he  just  wants  to  knock  about  and  have  a  good  time. 
He's  too  much  of  a  boy,  and  he's  inclined  to  run 
after  every  pretty  face  he  sees  I" 

Gillian  mentally  agreed  with  this  dispassionate 
estimate  of  the  young  man's  character.  But,  judg- 
ing from  his  conversation  on  the  way  to  Frascath 
that  morning,  she  was  driven  to  the  conclusion  that 
Grace's  chances  were  slighter  even  than  her  adoring 
mother  supposed. 

"For  you  see,"  continued  Mrs.  Widness,  "he's 
been  going  around  with  the  Ferrards  every  day 
almost  since  they  came.  We've  been  away  down  at 
Naples  for  a  couple  of  months.  But  directly  we 
came  back  and  he  saw  Grace  again  he  seemed  to 
forget  all  about  Patience!"  She  looked  hard  at 
Gillian,  who  felt  that  she  was  mentally  finishing 
her  sentence  with  the  unspoken  words,  "and  now 
he's  seen  you,  I'm  afraid  he's  going  to  forget  all 
about  Grace." 

So  strong  was  Gillian's  conviction  upon  the  point 
that  again  she  felt  the  guilty  colour  rise  in  her 
cheeks.  She  felt  angry  with  herself — angry  with 
Giacomo  because  his  words  had  made  her  feel  thus 
guilty.  It  was  absurd  of  a  man  to  talk  like  that  to 
a  woman  whom  he  had  met  for  the  first  time  the 
day  before ! 

"As  you  say,  Mrs.  Widness,  the  Marchese  is 
very  young.  He  really  seems  almost  too  much  of 
a  boy  to  be  thinking  of  marriage  at  all !" 

She  contrived  to  speak  in  a  cold,  indifferent  voice. 
If  swords  were  to  be  crossed  thus  early  in  the  duel 
she  was  determined  to  show  herself  a  match  for 
this  anxious  mother. 

"He's  turned  twenty-two,"  said  Mrs.  Widness, 


io6  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"and  Italians  develop  early,  as  you'll  find  when 
you've  been  a  little  longer  in  their  country,  Mrs. 
Driscoll.  And  then  his  mother  wants  him  to  marry 
a  nice,  well-brought-up  Catholic  girl  with  a  little 
money." 

She  laid  down  these  simple  qualifications  as  the 
irreducible  minimum  of  gifts,  temporal  and  spiritual, 
that  must  be  possessed  by  any  aspirant  for  the  post. 
Gillian  suppressed  a  smile.  She  felt  that  each  word 
was  a  dart,  aimed  at  herself.  Had  Mrs.  Widness 
thus  early  perceived  the  possibility  of  her  capturing 
the  fleeting  fancy  of  this  extremely  susceptible  Ital- 
ian? And  with  the  thought  there  came  a  sense  of 
bitterness  that  she  did  not  try  to  control.  She  saw 
the  gulf  that  divided  herself  from  a  young  girl  like 
Grace. 

She  drew  a  swift  mental  comparison  between 
Lady  Pallant  and  this  unknown  elderly  Italian 
noblewoman,  the  Marchesa  della  Meldola.  Both 
the  mothers  of  only  sons,  she  felt  that  to  neither 
of  them  would  she  be  anything  but  most  unwelcome 
as  a  daughter-in-law.  Gillian  realised  that  in  both 
these  instances  she  would  be  severely  ruled  out.  And 
what  mother  of  an  only  son  would  not  rapturously 
welcome  Grace  Widness,  with  her  youth,  her  dainty 
prettiness,  her  girlish  innocence,  and  that  fabulous 
dot  which  gossip  averred  would  one  day  be  hers,  as 
a  daughter-in-law  that  fulfilled  all  imagined  ideals? 
Gillian  bravely  envisaged  these  unpalatable  truths. 
It  was  not  that  she  desired  in  the  least  to  win  Gia- 
como's  love.  He  amused  her;  his  admiration,  so 
swiftly  aroused,  had  touched  her.  Deserted  by  the 
man  she  had  once  loved,  thrust  by  his  hands  into 
the  dust,  she  felt  that  the  spontaneous  admiration 
of  other  men  might  bestow  a  healing  balm  upon 
her  self-respect,  her  deeply  wounded  pride.  She  had 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  107 

no  wish  seriously  to  disturb  Giacomo's  peace  of 
mind.  Only  it  seemed  that  Mrs.  Widness  of  delib- 
erate intent  desired  her  to  understand  that  there 
were  already  rival  claimants  of  unassailable  eligi- 
bility in  the  field.  .  .  . 

The  realisation  of  her  own  complete  unsuitability 
supplied  her  with  a  sufficiently  humiliating  sense  of 
her  inferiority  to  Grace  Widness  and  to  Patience 
Ferrard,  who  each  in  their  own  degree  attained  to 
the  arbitrary  standard  laid  down  by  the  old  Mar- 
chesa.  For  a  moment  she  felt  a  little  reckless.  She 
longed  to  bring  Giacomo  to  her  feet  in  very  earnest, 
so  that  she  might  defy  and  circumvent  these  mothers 
of  marriageable  daughters.  It  would  not  be  a  very 
difficult  matter ;  she  felt  indeed  that  she  could  easily 
accomplish  it.  Had  he  not  already  told  her  that 
he  was  beginning  to  fall  in  love  with  her?  A  little 
exultant  sense  of  her  own  power  stirred  within  Gil- 
lian's heart.  She  had  never  used  that  power  to 
bring  Paul  to  her  feet.  And  if  she  deliberately 
made  up  her  mind  to  win  Giacomo,  putting  her  will 
into  the  affair  with  a  cold  relentlessness  untouched 
by  any  emotion,  surely  she  would  succeed  without 
any  difficulty  at  all?  She  put  the  thought  from  her 
almost  immediately  as  unworthy,  a  little  undig- 
nified. 

Giacomo  and  Grace  now  came  towards  them. 

"I  have  a  surprise  for  you  all,"  said  young  della 
Meldola.  "I  want  you  all  to  come  on  to  my  villa  for 
tea.  I've  telephoned  to  them  to  have  it  ready." 

"Oh,  but  it's  getting  on  for  four  o'clock  now," 
objected  Mrs.  Widness,  who  thought  young  men 
should  not  be  given  all  they  demand  without  any 
discussion;  "as  it  is  we  shall  hardly  be  back  in  Rome 
before  dark." 

Giacomo  smiled  at  Grace. 


io8  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"Miss  Widness — it  is  up  to  you — is  not  that  the 
right  American  word? — to  persuade  your  mother!" 
he  said. 

"Oh,  do  please  let  us,  mamma,"  said  Grace 
eagerly. 

"We  must  ask  Mr.  Widness,"  said  her  mother 
to  Giacomo.  "He  doesn't  care  to  be  out  late  in  the 
Campagna — he  thinks  it  isn't  healthy." 

But  Mr.  Widness  offered  no  sort  of  objection. 
In  all  the  smaller  amenities  of  life  he  always  allowed 
his  wife  to  have  her  own  way.  He  was  a  most  easy- 
going, good-natured  man,  and  as  a  husband  and 
father  he  was  almost  without  fault.  That  he  was 
a  little  dull  was  really  the  only  thing  that  could  be 
alleged  to  his  discredit.  But  even  this  fact  was  apt 
to  be  overlooked  when  people  remembered  the  un- 
counted millions  that  were  indubitably  his. 

Mr.  Widness  and  his  daughter  accompanied  Gia- 
como in  his  automobile  on  this  occasion,  while  Gil- 
lian followed  with  Mrs.  Widness  in  the  luxurious 
closed  limousine. 

Giacomo's  villa  was  situated  amid  delicious  olive 
groves  on  the  outskirts  of  Frascati.  It  was  by  no 
means  a  large  one,  but  it  was  old  and  beautiful  and 
its  rooms,  though  few,  were  lofty  and  spacious.  A 
great  stone  gateway  stained  by  the  sunshine  and 
rain  of  centuries  to  that  rich,  golden  brown  which 
can  never  be  imitated  and  whose  secret  lies  in  the 
hands  of  Time,  enclosed  the  huge  iron  portone  that 
was  flung  back  as  the  motors  approached  by  an 
elderly  Italian  woman  who  greeted  Giacomo  with 
an  almost  extravagant  delight.  A  short  avenue  of 
cypresses  led  up  to  the  house  that  nestled  against 
a  background  of  veiling  ilex  woods.  The  high, 
creamy  walls  were  decorated  with  endless  garlands 
of  wistaria  that  in  its  soft  shades  of  greyish  mauve 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  109 

seemed  to  harmonise  well  with  the  subdued  grey- 
green  of  the  ilex  trees.  The  idle  plash  of  a  fountain, 
the  waving  palms,  the  deep  and  wide  loggia  sup- 
ported by  creamy  pillars,  gave  an  almost  Oriental 
aspect  to  the  place. 

Across  the  gateway  Banksian  roses  trailed  their 
young  shoots,  displaying  here  and  there  a  cluster  of 
creamy  buds.  Lilac  bushes  smothered  with  blossom 
flung  their  pervading  scent  into  the  warm  air,  and 
the  Judas  trees  flamed  purple  as  the  heather  on  an 
August  moorland — too  beautiful,  alas,  to  be  thus 
associated  for  ever  with  the  name  of  the  Master- 
Traitor.  The  grassy  slopes,  spreading  away  from 
the  terraced  paths,  were  strewn  thickly  with  wild 
flowers,  with  cyclamen  and  violets,  and  wood  ane- 
mones in  every  variety  of  delicate  hue,  pink,  peri- 
winkle blue,  snow-white  and  deepest  purple.  Great 
bushes  of  genista  were  gay  with  flaming  gold.  Shady 
paths,  pale  and  narrow,  dipped  enticingly  into  the 
woods,  and  here  and  there  a  break  in  the  trees  re- 
vealed slopes  filled  with  olive  groves  that  glistened 
with  flecks  of  polished  silver,  long  avenues  of  cypress 
spires,  and  the  pale  gold  and  green  of  chestnut 
trees,  maples  and  poplars,  all  wearing  the  first  tender 
garments  of  spring. 

By  a  low  white  wall  that  enclosed  the  garden  on 
its  western  front  Giacomo  and  Gillian  stood  side 
by  side  and  looked  over  the  Roman  Campagna, 
lying  out  there  misty  and  indeterminate  in  the  fad- 
ing light.  It  was  like  some  dream  sea,  painted  in 
dimmest  tones  of  lavender  and  grey  and  palest 
green  as  if  it  were  seen  through  a^delicate  veil  of 
fragile,  insubstantial  silver  gauze.  All  the  detail 
of  it  was  undefined,  almost  blurred,  except  for  the 
slender  white  roads  that  cut  across  it  like  wander- 
ing ribbons.  And  far  off  in  the  midst  of  the  plain 
lay  Rome,  whose  seven  hills  appeared  from  those 


no  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

heights  like  seven  mounds,  while  the  immense  cupola 
looked  almost  as  if  it  were  suspended  above  the 
vast  sun-bleached  city.  Far  off,  too,  on  the  western 
horizon  a  wide  golden  glimmer  of  light  revealed 
the  sea  lying  under  a  pallid  serene  sky  illuminated 
by  the  sinking  sun. 

Giacomo's  eyes  met  Gillian's.  There  was  a  look 
in  them  of  almost  passionate  interest.  She  coloured 
a  little  under  that  fixed  glance. 

"Well,  do  you  like  it  here?"  he  said,  and  waited 
for  her  reply. 

"Very  much  indeed,"  she  replied. 

"I  am  glad,"  he  said.  "I  arranged  to  come  here 
on  purpose  that  you  might  see  it." 

They  turned  and  went  into  the  house  and  found 
that  tea  was  already  awaiting  them  in  the  old  salon 
with  its  painted  ceilings  and  fine  if  decaying  furni- 
ure.  The  roomy  armchairs  covered  with  chintz 
struck  the  only  modern  note. 

Mrs.  Widness  poured  out  the  tea  and  Giacomo 
handed  bread-and-butter  and  cakes.  Gillian  sat  near 
the  window;  the  scene  without  fascinated  her  and 
she  paid  little  heed  to  the  conversation  at  first.  Out- 
side the  sun,  drooping  slowly,  gilded  faintly  the  grey 
glimpse  of  Rome.  It  looked  now  like  a  city  of 
mirage,  fragile,  unreal.  The  sea  was  a  pale  golden 
shield  seen  through  webs  of  gossamer.  The  ilex 
trees  cast  long  shadows  on  the  turfed  slopes. 

"Mrs.  Driscoll  likes  my  house,"  said  Giacomo 
suddenly,  and  at  the  sound  of  her  own  name  Gillian 
looked  up  sharply. 

"Especially  this  most  beautiful  view,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "the  view  is  enchanting.  I  am 
quite  a  new  householder — this  place  has  only  be- 
longed to  me  since  I  came  of  age.  It  is  my  only 
share  of  the  Meldola  property — Guido  has  all  the 
rest.  But  I  like  it  best  of  all.  When  I  am  married 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  in 

I  intend  to  spend  my  honeymoon  here.  I  am  not 
going  to  frighten  my  bride  out  of  her  wits  by  taking 
her  to  my  mother's  ghostly  old  castle  in  the 
Abruzzi!" 

The  fair  face  of  Grace  Widness  flashed  a  vivid 
pink.  She  looked  a  little  confused  at  this  careless 
revelation  of  matrimonial  plans.  She  glanced  at 
Gillian,  whose  lips  were  parted  in  the  little  ironical, 
disillusioned  smile  that  was  becoming  so  frequent 
with  her. 

"Don't  you  ever  live  here?"  Gillian  inquired  of 
Giacomo. 

"Oh,  my  mother  comes  here  in  August  for  part 
of  her  villeggiatura,  and  I  sometimes  spend  a  week 
or  two  here  with  her.  It's  very  dull,"  he  confessed 
with  a  slight  grimace,  "only  we  two.  I  prefer  the 
Abruzzi,  where  I  can  get  a  little  shooting.  But 
on  my  honeymoon  I  shall  not  want  to  shoot  I" 

But  he  did  not  look  at  Grace  Widness  as  he  said 
the  words.  For  a  second  his  eyes  rested  upon  Gil- 
lian, then  he  turned  away  and  began  to  speak  of 
other  things.  But  Grace  had  intercepted  that  fugi- 
tive glance.  There  had  been  in  it  a  strange  mixture 
of  humourous  self-scorn,  of  complacency,  of  deliber- 
ate, considered  adoration.  Jealousy  plunged  its  cold 
steel  sickeningly  into  her  heart.  She  had  enjoyed 
her  girlish  triumph  over  Patience  Ferrard;  now  was 
she,  too,  in  her  turn  to  be  dispossessed?  She  com- 
forted herself  a  little  by  thinking,  "It  would  be 
absurd.  Mrs.  Driscoll  must  be  much  older  than  he 
is.  Besides,  she's  a  Protestant."  But  the  comfort 
was  short-lived.  Protestants  could  always  become 
Catholics,  and  indeed  very  frequently  did  so.  And 
she  was  obliged  to  confess  that  Gillian's  age  could 
not  be  regarded  as  an  insuperable  obstacle,  at  most 
she  could  be  but  a  year  or  two  older.  "I  wonder 


H2  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

how  long  her  husband's  been  dead,"  was  her  next 
unspoken  comment. 

The  finished  daintiness  of  the  Englishwoman 
evoked  her  admiring  envy.  Her  delicate  dark 
beauty  must,  she  felt,  put  her  own  more  obvious 
charms  into  the  shade.  But  she  did  not  fall  down 
and  worship  Gillian  Driscoll  as  Deborah  Venning 
and  Joan  Pallant  had  each  in  their  turn  done.  Her 
rapidly  deepening  love  for  Giacomo,  that  until  to- 
day had  been  buoyed  up  by  all  kinds  of  girlish  hopes, 
prevented  such  immature  worship.  She  wanted  to 
defend  him  against  Gillian — this  strange  woman 
with  the  cold  eyes  and  smile,  of  whom  they  knew 
so  little.  .  .  . 

"How  shall  we  go  home?"  said  Giacomo,  turning 
to  Gillian  as  the  two  cars  came  up  to  the  door. 
"Will  you  trust  yourself  to  me  again?" 

"Grace  must  come  with  me,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Widness,  paying  no  heed  to  the  last  part  of  the 
young  man's  sentence.  "I  can't  let  her  go  in  an 
open  car  just  at  sunset.  She'd  be  getting  fever  in 
the  Campagna.  I  advise  you  to  come  with  us  too, 
Mrs.  Driscoll.  The  gentlemen  have  got  their  great- 
coats, which  makes  a  difference  I" 

Gillian  submitted  to  this  suggestion  with  one  of 
her  sudden  accesses  of  prudence,  and  accompanied 
the  mother  and  daughter  back  to  Rome.  Grace 
was  silent,  perhaps  even  a  little  sulky,  although  it 
was  a  relief  to  have  her  rival  under  her  own  eye. 
But  the  disappointed  expression  on  Giacomo's  face 
when  Gillian  got  into  the  car  had  not  escaped  her. 
She  felt  that  for  some  reason  or  other  he  had 
desired  very  strongly  to  escort  Gillian  home.  And 
in  any  case  she  herself  would  never  have  been  per- 
mitted to  go  alone  with  him,  her  father  would 
most  certainly  have  accompanied  them.  Mrs.  Wid- 
ness conformed  most  rigidly  to  the  customs  and  con- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  113 

ventions  of  the  country  In  which  she  found  herself, 
and  allowed  her  daughter  much  less  liberty  in  Italy 
than  American  girls  usually  enjoy. 

"If  Grace  wants  an  Italian  husband,"  she  thought 
to  herself  with  good-humoured  complacency,  "she 
musn't  fly  in  the  face  of  all  their  notions  of  propri- 
ety !" 

But  even  she  realised  that  this  young  and  inde- 
pendent English  widow  constituted  a  danger  both 
proximate  and  imminent. 


CHAPTER  IX 

GIACOMO  arrived  first  at  the  hotel;  they  found 
him  awaiting  them  on  the  steps. 

"May  I  drive  you  back  to  Via  Sistina?"  he  in- 
quired of  Gillian. 

"No,  thank  you.    I'm  going  to  walk." 

She  turned  to  say  good-bye  to  the  Widness  family, 
and  having  done  so  walked  slowly  away  with  Gia- 
como  by  her  side.  Mrs.  Widness  called  after  her : 

"Are  you  sure  you  won't  go  in  our  car,  Mrs. 
Driscoll?" 

Gillian  shook  her  head,  smiling. 

"No,  thank  you.     I  really  prefer  to  walk." 

She  turned  into  the  Via  Vend  Settembre,  and 
Giacomo  was  still  by  her  side.  "When  shall  I  see 
you  again?"  he  asked. 

"Will  you  dine  with  me  to-morrow  night?" 

"I  shall  be  delighted." 

"Don't  come  any  further  now,  please,"  said  Gil- 
lian; "you'd  better  go  back  to  your  car,  hadn't  you?" 

She  had  detected  signs  of  disapproval  on  Mrs. 
Widness's  face  and  of  disappointment  on  Grace's. 
Gillian  was  always  miserable  in  an  atmosphere  of 
disapproval,  and  she  did  not  wish  to  become  the 
subject  of  discussion  and  gossip. 

"But  it's  so  far  for  you  to  walk  alone — and  it's 
nearly  dark,"  he  objected.  "I  want  to  walk  with 
you." 

She  felt  flattered  at  his  obvious  eagerness  to  ac- 
company her. 

"Please  don't,"  she  said  simply,  and  held  out  her 
hand.  "You  know  we  Englishwomen  are  accus- 
tomed to  going  about  alone." 

114 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

Reluctantly  he  accepted  his  dismissal.  He  went 
sulkily  back  to  the  hotel  and  resisted  Mrs.  Widness's 
invitation  to  dine  with  them.  He  had  not  seen  his 
mother  all  day,  he  explained,  and  she  would  be  ex- 
pecting him. 

He  dined  alone  with  Gillian  on  the  following 
night.  The  furnished  apartment  she  had  taken  be- 
longed to  an  American  artist  and  his  wife,  and  it 
was  full  of  beautiful  things,  pictures,  china,  and 
lovely  old  furniture.  In  the  morning  Gillian  had 
gone  down  to  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  and  had  bought 
immense  bunches  of  long-stalked  pink  roses  with 
which  she  had  lavishly  decorated  the  salotto.  It 
looked  charming,  and  as  the  evening  was  chilly  she 
had  had  a  wood  fire  lighted  which  gave  it  an  aspect 
of  cheerful  warmth. 

Gillian  wore  a  dress  of  shell-pink  crepe  fashioned 
very  softly  with  long  straight  lines  that  made  her 
look  very  slender  and  graceful.  She  felt  a  little 
nervous  as  she  sat  there  waiting  for  Giacomo.  But 
when  he  came  in  he  set  her  at  once  at  her  ease. 
He  sat  down  and  began  to  talk  to  her  of  all  he  had 
done  that  day,  of  his  mother,  of  their  expedition 
to  Frascati.  He  looked  very  handsome,  his  eyes 
were  very  bright,  and  he  threw  back  his  head  with 
that  now  familiar  gesture  and  smiled  at  her.  There 
was  something  at  once  boyish  and  experienced  about 
Giacomo. 

He  was  very  happy  to-night  and  his  spirits  had 
risen  to  correspond  with  the  occasion.  He  was  en- 
chanted to  find  himself  en  tete-a-tete  with  this  beau- 
tiful, fascinating  Englishwoman.  His  Latin  curi- 
osity was  aroused,  and  he  longed  to  know  her  his- 
tory. How  delightful  to  hear  it  from  her  own  lips  I 
He  almost  hoped  that  it  might  be  a  sad  one.  Had 
she  been  happy  with  this  unknown  English  husband? 
Had  his  death  affected  her  profoundly?  She  was 


u6  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

still  so  young  to  have  traversed  all  these  experi- 
ences. Yet  her  eyes  taught  him  that  she  had  not 
glided  easily  nor  always  serenely  over  hard  ways. 
There  had  been  perhaps  hard  struggles,  sharp  mo- 
ments of  pain,  weariness,  even  rebellion.  He  won- 
dered if  she  would  ever  unfold  the  pages  of  that 
sealed  book  to  him.  She  would  find  him  all  sym- 
pathy and  attention.  Her  beauty,  that  suggestion 
of  silence  and  elusiveness  about  her,  stimulated  pow- 
erfully his  imagination.  It  seemed  to  him  the  silence 
of  one  who  dares  not  rather  than  of  one  who  cannot 
speak.  He  thought  of  Patience  Ferrard,  of  Grace 
Widness — young  girls  whose  rank  or  fortune  made 
them  eligible  in  his  mother's  eyes — and  turned 
wearily  from  the  contemplation  of  them.  .  .  .  Only 
to-day  his  mother  had  actually  approached  him  on 
the  subject  of  Grace  Widness. 

Gillian  looked  up  and  saw  his  dark  wonderful 
eyes  fixed  upon  her. 

"Eh  bien?"  she  said  lightly. 

"Oh,  you  are  beautiful!"  he  said,  almost  as  if  he 
could  not  help  uttering  the  words,  "you  are  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  Rome.  I  want  you  to  meet  my 
mother." 

Surely  there  would  be  no  more  talk  then  of  Grace 
Widnesses  I 

"I  shall  be  delighted  to  meet  your  mother,"  she 
said  in  a  tone  of  cold  conventionality,  paying  no 
heed  to  his  outburst. 

It  was  the  cool  calmness  of  her  that  piqued  him. 
He  thought  he  understood  the  Anglo-Saxon  charac- 
ter, but  there  was  something  about  Mrs.  Driscoll 
that  baffled  him. 

Dinner  was  nearly  over.  The  coffee  and  cigar- 
ettes had  just  been  brought  in.  They  were  alone, 
and  Gillian  sat  there,  leaning  one  elbow  on  the  table,. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  117 

while  Giacomo  gazed  at  her  from  the  opposite  end 
of  the  little  square  table  as  fixedly  as  he  dared. 

"I  have  not  told  her  about  you  yet,"  he  said, 
lighting  a  cigarette. 

"No?"  said  Gillian,  "but  there  isn't  much  to  tell, 
is  there?" 

It  was  as  if  she  were  quietly  informing  him  that 
he  knew  so  very  little  about  her,  that  he  could  indeed 
answer  none  of  those  pertinent  questions  the  mother 
of  an  only  son  would  inevitably  ask. 

"But  I  want  her  to  know  you  well.  I  wish  my 
mother  to  receive  you  dans  I'intimite." 

"Is  that  necessary?"  she  asked. 

"From  my  point  of  view,"  he  said. 

Giacomo  had  strayed  many  times  upon  the  allur- 
ing confines  of  matrimony,  but  he  had  always  hesi- 
tated before  taking  the  final  plunge.  There  had 
been  moments  last  winter  when  he  had  almost  re- 
solved to  make  his  mother  and  Mrs.  Widness,  and 
incidentally  Grace,  happy  by  announcing  his  inten- 
tion of  marrying  this  richly  dowered  young  girl. 
Mrs.  Widness,  perceiving  in  him  a  tendency  to  re- 
grettable and  undue  procrastination,  removed  her 
daughter  to  Naples  for  a  couple  of  months  in  order 
to  see  what  effect  absence  would  produce  upon  his 
volatile  mind.  Then  she  heard  rumours  of  the  pres- 
ence of  Patience  Ferrard  in  Rome  and  she  decided 
to  return.  All  had  gone  well  and  smoothly  until 
the  sudden  appearance  upon  the  scene  of  Mrs.  Dris- 
coll.  Giacomo  had  scarcely  made  any  pretence  of 
disguising  the  furious  interest  that  lady  had  evoked 
in  him. 

Possessing  all  the  Italian's  cold  prudence  and 
sense  of  calculation,  Giacomo  was  able  to  combine 
ardour  with  a  sheer  business-like  instinct  for  getting 
his  due.  He  wanted,  of  course,  to  know  much 


n8  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

more  about  Gillian  first ;  at  the  same  time  he  wanted 
her  to  realise  he  was  so  far  sincere  and  in  earnest, 
that  he  wished  to  present  her  to  his  mother,  who 
would  doubtless  draw  her  own  conclusions. 

She  rose  and  led  the  way  back  to  the  salotto. 
Giacomo  walked  about  the  room,  examining  the  pic- 
tures and  china;  he  knew  a  good  deal  about  such 
things.  He  admired  the  arrangement  of  the  room, 
its  quiet  and  subdued  colouring.  But  he  could  not 
long  keep  to  purely  impersonal  subjects.  Every 
moment  found  him  falling  yet  more  deeply  in  love 
with  Mrs.  Driscoll.  He  had  known  her  just  two 
days,  but  he  told  himself  that  he  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her  at  first  sight,  that  he  had  been  waiting 
for  her  all  his  life,  and  that  Providence  most  merci- 
fully had  saved  him  hitherto  from  marriage. 

"Mrs.  Driscoll,"  he  said. 

He  walked  abruptly  over  to  her  chair  as  he  spoke, 
and  stooping  down  took  her  hand  in  his  and  raised 
it  to  his  lips.  She  felt  that  he  was  trembling. 

"I  love  you,"  he  said,  "I  wish  to  marry  you.  It  is 
as  my  future  fiancee  that  I  wish  to  present  you  to 
my  mother." 

It  was  almost  a  relief  to  get  the  words  spoken, 
to  be  able  to  watch,  as  he  was  doing  now,  the  soft 
colour  darken  her  cheek. 

"You  may  be  perfectly  sure  of  one  thing,"  said 
Gillian,  "I  shall  never  be  your  fiancee." 

Even  now  she  could  hardly  believe  that  he  was 
really  in  earnest. 

He  turned  paler.  "Are  you  not  free?"  he  stam- 
mered. 

"My  freedom  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  don't 
wish  to  marry,"  she  said. 

"Were  you — were  you  so  very  unhappy?"  he  ven- 
tured timidly. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  119 

"I  was  not  always  happy  or  unhappy.  I  can  make 
the  best  of  things." 

She  did  not  quite  know  why  she  fenced  thus  with 
Giacomo  della  Meldola.  His  subtlety,  perhaps, 
evoked  subtlety.  He  was  young,  clever,  ardent;  he 
held  the  situation  in  his  hands;  there  was  some- 
thing masterful  and  dominating  about  him.  She 
had  used  her  power  just  a  little ;  she  had  consciously 
encouraged  him,  but  she  felt  all  the  time  that  he  was 
dominating  her.  Paul  had  approached  her  humbly 
as  a  slave,  this  man  neither  beseeched  nor  entreated; 
he  simply  asserted. 

As  she  sat  there  Gillian  began  in  the  brief  pause 
that  followed  her  own  speech  to  revolve  the  matter 
rapidly  in  her  mind.  She  was  certainly  not  in  love 
with  Giacomo,  though  she  felt  his  attraction;  she 
felt  proud  to  think  he  had  been  so  swift  to  offer  her 
his  love.  She  was  certain  that  never  again  would 
she  fall  in  love  as  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  Aylmer 
Driscoll.  The  mingled  distress  and  agony  and  rap- 
ture of  love  could  never  again  be  hers;  it  seemed 
to  her  a  thing  that  belonged  exclusively  to  youth; 
it  was  something  at  which  age  and  experience  rightly 
mocked.  Her  heart  was  cold.  She  did  not  count 
that  momentary  tenderness  she  had  felt  for  Paul; 
it  had  been  a  pitying  half-maternal  feeling.  But  she 
did  intend — coldly  and  deliberately  intend — to  ex- 
tract something  definite  and  durable  from  life.  She 
was  resolved  that  she  would  not  be  cheated;  she 
would  secure  at  all  costs  material  happiness. 
Whether  Giacomo  could  give  her  precisely  what  she 
desired  she  could  not  yet  tell.  It  was  her  ignorance 
of  him  that  forced  her  to  temporise.  She  did  not 
want  to  make  a  second  mistake.  But  there  was 
something  about  him  that  inspired  trust  and  con- 
fidence. He  loved  her,  and  she  felt  that  at  a  word 


izo  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

she  could  fan  his  love  to  flame.  He  had  great  pos- 
sessions, and  was  prepared  to  lay  them  at  her  feet. 
He  could  give  her  a  new  life  in  agreeable  and  beau- 
tiful surroundings — so  different  indeed  from  the  old 
one  that  it  would  be  actually  incapable  of  challeng- 
ing comparison  with  it.  A  dignified  life,  far  re- 
moved from  England  and  Aylmer  and  all  the  tortur- 
ing memories  of  the  past.  She  remembered  all  that 
Mrs.  Widness  had  told  her  of  Giacomo's  upbring- 
ing in  strict  and  pious  surroundings.  That  it  influ- 
enced and  still  held  him  was  shown  in  what  he  had 
said  about  his  mother. 

"If  you  were  my  wife,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  voice 
that  was  low  and  soft  like  music,  "I  would  spend 
my  life  in  trying  to  make  you  happy.  I  would  teach 
you  to  forget  all  that  you  have  ever  known  of  un- 
happmess." 

In  imagination  she  was  bending  alone  above  the 
cot  of  her  dead  child  in  a  darkened  London  room. 
That,  at  least,  no  later  love  could  ever  teach  her 
to  forget.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  want  to  forget  everything,"  she 
said,  almost  pitifully;  "almost  always  when  one  has 
a  great  sorrow  it  means  that  a  great  joy  has  gone 
before." 

"And  this,"  he  said,  "was  so  with  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Gillian,  almost  unwillingly. 

There  was  a  little  table  between  them;  he 
stretched  his  arm  across  it  and  touched  her  hand. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said.  "Won't  you  tell  me  about 
it,  Mrs.  Driscoll?" 

His  very  soul  seemed  to  be  looking  at  her  out  of 
his  dark  eyes;  she  felt  almost  hypnotised. 

"Yes — I  don't  mind  telling  you  if  you  really  care 
to  hear  about  it.  I  had  a  baby  girl  once.  When 
she  was  a  few  months  old  she  died." 

He  drew  in  his  breath  sharply.     That  grief  in 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

her  eyes,  which  he  thought  sometimes  was  the  most 
poignant  thing  he  had  ever  seen,  had  not  been  caused 
by  the  loss  of  her  husband.  Perhaps  she  had  never 
loved  him.  She  was  very  young,  and  girls  made 
mistakes. 

"I  would  not  ask  you  to  forget  that,"  said  Gia- 
como  softly. 

She  was  roused  to  an  amazing  consciousness  of 
indiscretion.  Why  had  she  lent  herself  to  this  in- 
timately personal  conversation  with  a  stranger  who 
was  almost  unknown  to  her?  She  was  a  reserved 
woman  normally;  that  grief  was  sacred  and  she 
never  mentioned  it.  Yet  he  had  dragged  her  from 
her  frozen  reserve;  he  was  thawing  the  ice  that 
seemed  to  encase  her  heart. 

"Some  day  you  will  tell  me  more — much  more," 
he  said  gently. 

But  this  time  when  he  leaned  forward  and  touched 
her  hand  he  raised  it  to  his  lips.  The  caress  made 
Gillian  shiver  a  little.  She  sat  there  very  still,  very 
silent,  wondering  what  he  would  say  next. 

"One  day  you  will  tell  my  mother,"  he  said,  "all 
about  the  darling  child  you  have  lost.  She  will  be 
very  sympathetic — she  will  console  you.  I  am  sure 
she  will  tell  you  that  it  is  numbered  .  .  .  for  ever 
.  .  .  among  the  Holy  Innocents." 

He  spoke  very  simply,  very  sincerely,  and  his 
words  touched  Gillian  in  spite  of  herself.  She  be- 

em  to  realise  the  simplicity  and  profundity  of 
iacomo's  faith,  and  she  could  see  that  he  was  held 
by  it  as  if  by  a  chain.  No  doubt  his  mother  was 
a  bigot,  but  at  least  she  had  given  to  her  son  some- 
thing that  was  of  perdurable  worth.  There  had 
been  something  beautifully  soft  and  tender  in  his 
voice  as  he  had  said  those  words:  "/  am  sure  she 
will  tell  you  that  it  is  numbered  for  ever  among  the 
Holy  Innocents" 


122  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

She  wished  she  had  had  that  thought  at  the  time 
to  comfort  her. 

"I  should  like  to  know  your  mother,"  she  said. 
"I  never  knew  mine.  It  must  be  wonderful  to  have 
a  mother  to  whom  you  are  everything  in  the  world." 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  "it  is  wonderful.  She  loves 
me  above  everything  else  in  the  world.  Yet  she  is 
like  St.  Philip  Neri's  mother  who  said  she  would 
rather  see  her  son  dead  than  that  he  should  commit 
one  mortal  sin." 

A  little  cold  shudder  ran  involuntarily  through 
Gillian.  The  words  "one  mortal  sin"  struck  chill 
to  her  heart.  It  seemed  to  bring  home  to  her  the 
measure  of  Aylmer's  offence.  What  would  Mar- 
chesa  della  Meldola  think  of  such  a  thing?  Would 
she  not  be  horrified  to  find  in  Gillian  a  deserted, 
abandoned  wife?  What  views  would  she  hold  in 
her  stern  bigotry  about  the  re-marriage  of  divorced 
persons,  even  of  that  one  often  so  curiously  termed 
the  innocent  party? 

"I  think  I  should  be  afraid  of  her,"  said  Gillian, 
"she  sounds  severe — even  hard.  I  can't  imagine  a 
woman  saying  or  thinking  such  a  dreadful  thing 
about  her  own  child." 

"Oh,  you  would  not  find  her  really  severe,"  he 
assured  her,  rather  surprised  at  the  decision  in  her 
tone.  The  strength  of  her  views  on  the  subject  had 
also  somewhat  astonished  him.  "Especially,"  he 
went  on,  "to  people  who  are  good.  She  would,  of 
course,  like  you  much  better  if  you  were  a  Catholic 
and  devote.  She  would  wish  you  to  become  a  Cath- 
olic— she  might  even  insist  upon  this  before  she 
gives  her  consent." 

"Her  consent?"     Gillian  frowned. 

"To  our  marriage,"  said  Giacomo. 

"You  are  going  ahead  rather  quickly,"  said  Mrs. 
Driscoll.  "I  have  just  told  you  that  I  do  not  wish 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  123 

to  marry.  Is  it  possible  you  did  not  understand? 
If  I  consent  to  be  presented  to  your  mother  it  is 
only  on  condition  that  you  will  not  repeat  any  of — 
of  this  folly  to  her.  I  do  not  at  all  wish  to  meet 
her  as  your  future  fiancee.  We  are  mere  acquaint- 
ances— are  we  not? — and  I  should  be  happy  to  meet 
her,  because  I  know  you.  Under  the  circumstances 
it  cannot  of  course  matter  in  the  least  to  her  if 
I  am  a  Catholic  or  not!" 

Giacomo  flushed  at  the  sternness  of  her  tone. 

"Oh,  but  I  want  it  to  matter  very  much!"  he  said. 

He  felt  chilled  and  hurt.  Why  had  she  asked  him 
to  come?  Why  had  she  allowed  him  to  take  her 
hand  and  kiss  it  without  any  show  of  protest  or  re- 
monstrance? 

"You  know  me  so  little,"  she  said,  "and  yet 
almost  from  the  first  you  have  begun  to  speak  to 
me  of  love.  I  tell  you  it  is  out  of  the  question." 
She  should  never  have  it  on  her  conscience  now,  she 
told  herself,  that  she  had  encouraged  him  from  the 
outset.  Was  not  this  a  sufficient  snub  for  any  young 
man?  She  saw  him  wince  under  her  words.  So 
already  she  had  power  to  hurt  him. 

"I  am  older  than  you,"  she  went  on,  "and  I 
seem  to  have  a  whole  lifetime  of  experience  behind 
me.  You  are  young — you  are  almost  a  boy — only 
a  boy  would  speak  as  you  do  in  this  foolish  exagger- 
ated way.  But  if  you  wish  to  marry  I  advise  you 
to  marry  some  young  girl,  like  Miss  Widness,  who 
is  rich  and  a  Catholic — in  short,  everything  that  the 
most  fastidious  mother  could  approve  or  desire  I" 

She  smiled  ironically  at  him.  Giacomo  looked  at 
her  through  half-closed  eyes. 

"But  I  love  you,"  he  said,  "and  those  young  girls 
— Miss  Widness  and  Miss  Ferrard — seem  to  me 
babyish  and  insipid.  My  mother  is,  however,  very 
much  in  favour  of  Miss  Widness.  She  has  been 


i24  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

brought  up  in  pious  surroundings.  She  would,  in 
truth,  be  a  little  handmaid  to  my  mother  in  all  her 
works  of  charity." 

"Do  you  intend  then  that  your  wife  should  oc- 
cupy herself  entirely  with  good  works?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  good  for  women  to  employ  their  time  in 
this  manner,"  replied  Giacomo,  a  trifle  sententiously. 

"Wouldn't  she  find  it  frightfully  dull  and — bor- 
ing?" Gillian  had  lively  recollections  of  district  vis- 
iting under  the  aegis  of  Miss  Letitia  in  old  Bath  days. 
Her  idea  of  good  works  was  slightly  limited,  but 
she  imagined  they  were  all  conducted  on  the  same 
lines. 

"Not — not  a  girl  like  Miss  Widness,"  said 
Giacomo. 

"Then  I  strongly  advise  you  to  marry  her,"  said 
Gillian,  "since  she  fits  in  so  exactly  with  your  moth- 
er's ideal." 

The  sarcasm  of  the  speech  did  not  escape  him. 
He  began  to  fear  that  his  words  had  given  her  an 
alarming  if  not  wholly  erroneous  impression  of  his 
mother. 

"Ah,  but  I  have  my  own  ideals,"  he  said  softly, 
and  now  there  was  something  languorous  in  his 
tone,  and  his  eyes  rested  on  her  with  an  expression 
of  almost  passionate  devotion.  "And  you  corre- 
spond to  them  exactly.  You  are  the  woman  I  have 
always  dreamed  of — always  waited  for.  Without 
being  religious  and  devote  as  we  understand  it,  you 
are  very  good.  The  rest  would  come.  You  would 
have  my  mother's  example — she  would  influence 
you." 

"You  would  give  her  a  great  deal  of  anxiety  and 
unhappiness,"  she  said,  "if  you  were  to  suggest  to 
her  that  you  wished  to  marry  a  Protestant.  Just  as 
I  should  grieve  and  offend  my  two  old  aunts  who 
brought  me  up,  if  I  were  to  tell  them  I  was  going  to 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  125 

marry  a  Catholic.  You  see  we  don't  think  as  you 
do  at  all.  We  should  always  be  disagreeing." 

Giacomo  said  quickly,  "Oh,  no,  we  should  not. 
And  my  mother — yes,  she  might  be  anxious  and  un- 
happy at  first.  But  if  you  were  to  become  a  Cath- 
olic that  would  make  everything  all  right  at  once !" 

And  again  Miss  Letitia's  words  echoed  in  her 
ears,  "Remember  Elsie  Smith."  But  surely  tempta- 
tion to  change  her  religion  had  never  been  put  be- 
fore poor  Elsie  in  so  desirable  a  form! 

"I  am  perfectly  certain  I  should  never  become 
a  Catholic,"  said  Gillian  with  great  decision.  "I 
find  it  very  difficult  to  believe  in  anything  at  all.  Do 
please  let  us  talk  of  something  else!" 

She  lit  another  cigarette,  and  Giacomo  followed 
her  example. 

"I  will  bring  my  mother  to  call  upon  you,"  he 
said.  "You  will  permit  this?" 

"Oh,  yes — do  bring  her,"  said  Gillian  carelessly. 

She  felt  a  vague  curiosity  to  meet  the  Marchesa, 
though  she  had  already  made  up  her  mind  to  dis- 
like her. 

"Only  remember  that  you  are  to  tell  her  nothing 
of  all  this,"  she  reminded  him. 

Giacomo  agreed  sullenly. 

When  he  rose  to  go,  he  held  her  hand  and  looked 
into  her  eyes — a  square  steady  look  that  made  her 
eyelids  drop  hastily. 

"I  am  going  to  marry  you,"  said  Giacomo  quietly. 
"Did  I  not  tell  you  that  Rome  would  make  you 

Prisoner?  You  shall  be  my  wife — my  prisoner, 
ou  think  we  do  not  know  each  other  sufficiently 
well  yet?  Very  well — we  will  wait  a  little.  I  will 
wait  a  year — two  years — but  I  shall  never  marry 
any  other  woman.  I  love  you,  and  you  think  I 
am  only  a  boy.  I  am  going  to  show  you  that  I  am 
in  earnest." 


126  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

When  he  had  gone  Gillian  found  herself  trem- 
bling a  little.  Something  in  those  last  words  had 
convinced  her  as  to  the  reality  and  depth  of  his 
feeling  for  her.  And  was  he  not  able  to  give  her 
much  that  she  desired  to  have  in  the  future? 

She  sat  there  alone  far  into  the  night,  renewing  the 
wood  fire  from  time  to  time.  She  liked  the  aromatic 
fragrance  of  those  burning  olive  logs.  On  the  whole 
she  was  satisfied  with  the  way  she  had  acted  that 
evening.  She  had  conscientiously  tried  to  snub  Gia- 
como,  and  he  had  gone  away  still  full  of  confidence 
in  his  ultimate  success.  No  one  could  ever  blame 
her  for  undue  encouragement  of  this  young  man. 
But  when  she  looked  closely  into  her  own  heart, 
after  he  had  gone,  she  realised  that  when — if  ever 
— he  proposed  marriage  to  her  again,  she  would 
certainly  accept  him.  The  prospect  of  a  complete 
break  with  her  old  life,  of  starting  afresh  amid  sur- 
roundings that  were  wholly  new  and  unaccustomed, 
attracted  her  enormously.  Indeed  the  more  she  con- 
templated it  the  more  desirable  did  it  seem  as  a 
solution  of  her  problem.  She  had  been  miserably 
treated  by  her  husband,  and  she  was  not  at  all  in- 
clined to  retire  into  that  twilight  position  to  which 
Lady  Pallant  and  her  aunts  desired  to  consign  her. 
She  wished  to  enjoy  life,  to  forget  her  old  miseries, 
the  nightmare  of  Aylmer's  desertion  and  of  Debo- 
rah's perfidy.  Gillian,  without  realising  it,  was  in 
a  very  dangerous  state  of  mind.  There  was  some- 
thing reckless,  desperate,  almost  unscrupulous  in 
her  desire  to  snatch  a  few  sweet  fruits  from  life. 
Giacomo  loved  her,  she  told  herself;  why  should 
she  repudiate  that  love?  Then  a  little  doubt  crept 
into  her  heart.  When  he  knew  her  history,  when 
he  knew  that  the  English  husband  was  divorced  and 
not  dead,  would  he  still  love  her? 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  Marchesa  Meldola,  though  no  longer 
young,  was  still  brisk  and  active.  She  had  mar- 
ried rather  late  in  life,  and  her  husband  had  not 
long  survived  his  second  marriage.  By  this  time 
her  stepson  Guido  was  grown  up,  and  she  was  able 
to  devote  herself  entirely  to  the  upbringing  of  Gia- 
como,  who  was  a  beautiful  little  boy  of  four  years 
old.  It  had  always  been  her  hope  that  he  might 
become  a  priest,  perhaps  a  monk  in  some  religious 
order.  But  as  the  boy  advanced  in  years,  he  showed 
no  disposition  for  this  career.  He  was  strong, 
active,  ambitious.  The  years  spent  at  Beaumont — 
which  his  mother  had  also  passed  in  England, 
where  she  had  many  relations — had  given  him  a 
taste  for  English  ways  and  sports.  He  decided  to 
make  the  army  his  career  and  entered  a  cavalry 
regiment,  rather  to  his  mother's  disappointment. 
She,  seeing  how  strong  was  his  desire,  did  not,  after 
the  first,  attempt  to  thwart  him.  She  had  brought 
him  up  very  strictly,  even  severely,  but  she  adored 
him,  and  Giacomo,  whose  disposition  was  sunny  and 
careless,  reciprocated  her  devotion.  He  gave  her 
almost  all  the  obedience  and  consideration  she  ex- 
acted. And  so  far  there  had  never  been  any  real 
cause  for  disagreement  between  them. 

Now  it  had  become  his  passionate  desire  that  she 
should  see  and  approve  of  Gillian  Driscoll.  Of 
course  he  knew  that  he  could  not  expect  her  entire 
and  immediate  approval.  To  begin  with  he  was 
almost  entirely  ignorant  of  Mrs.  Driscoll's  history, 
and  something  in  his  sense  of  honour  prompted  him 
to  wait  and  hear  it  from  her  own  lips  rather  than 
to  pursue  the  easier  course  of  making  inquiries  of 

127 


128 

their  mutual  friends  the  Ferrards.  He  only  knew 
Lady  Lucy  very  slightly,  and  felt  a  little  diffident 
about  seeking  her  out  just  now.  And  she  had  no 
idea  that  his  acquaintance  with  Gillian  had  made 
such  rapid  progress  after  their  first  meeting  at  her 
own  dinner-party.  She  did  not  know  Mrs.  Widness, 
who  thus  had  learned  nothing  about  Gillian  from 
her. 

As  far  as  he  could  tell  at  their  first  interview, 
Gillian  impressed  his  mother  quite  favourably.  Of 
course  her  manner  could  not  be  called  deferential; 
she  had  a  great  deal  of  quiet  assurance  and  self- 
possession  that  seemed  to  lead  her  to  treat  the  older 
woman  as  an  equal.  There  was  no  attempt  on  her 
side  to  make  a  bid  for  the  Marchesa's  favour.  She 
was  courteous  and  smiling  and  that  was  all. 

The  Marchesa  was  short  and  rather  stout,  and 
was  very  plainly  almost  dingily  dressed  in  rusty 
black.  Her  grey  hair  was  neatly  arranged  without 
any  regard  to  fashion,  and  her  shabby  hat  and  black 
kid  gloves  bore  signs  of  honourable  usage.  Her 
large  fortune  was  not  spent  upon  her  clothes.  To 
the  Church  and  to  the  poor  she  was  extremely  and 
unvaryingly  generous,  and  she  exhibited  towards 
herself  the  only  parsimony  of  which  she  was  capable. 
She  lived  a  very  retired  life,  and  was  absorbed  in 
good  works;  she  saw  only  her  old  friends  of  the 
"Black"  nobility.  She  knew  nothing  of  that  newer 
world  of  Rome — the  Rome  of  luxurious  hotels,  of 
rich  Americans,  and  of  elegant  cosmopolitan  tour- 
ists. She  never  saw  those  fashionable  pleasure- 
seekers  who  were  yearly  welcomed  in  other  Roman 
palaces,  and  perhaps  if  she  had  seen  them,  the  vision 
would  have  excited  her  indignant  disapproval,  and 
her  fears  that  Giacomo  might  find  among  them  an 
alien  bride  would  have  increased  ten-fold. 

She  wondered  a  little  why  Giacomo  wished  her 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  129 

to  make  the  acquaintance  of  this  Englishwoman. 
Indeed  he  had  some  difficulty  in  keeping  to  Gillian's 
conditions,  to  abstain  from  informing  his  mother 
of  his  hopes  and  fears.  He  could  see  that  the  very 
request  had  aroused  her  suspicions.  She  said  noth- 
ing, but  she  thought  a  great  deal  more  than  even 
Giacomo  could  have  supposed. 

She  was  surprised  at  Gillian's  youth.  She  was 
not  only  young,  but  she  looked  young,  with  her  clear 
flawless  pale  skin,  her  dark  grey  eyes,  her  soft  dark 
hair.  She  was  slender,  almost  girlish-looking,  and 
had  the  indefinable  look  of  race.  The  Marchesa 
recognised  in  her  a  woman  of  character,  of  crystal- 
lised views,  sympathetic  but  disillusioned.  She  had 
heard  the  story  of  the  little  dead  daughter,  and  her 
heart  ached  a  little  at  the  forlorn  thought.  But 
Gillian  was,  in  her  opinion,  too  young  not  to  be  able 
to  make  a  fresh  start,  to  take  up  life  under  new 
auspices,  to  become  perhaps  again  a  happy  wife 
and  mother. 

As  they  drove  away  after  the  brief  call  had  been 
paid,  the  Marchesa  said  to  her  son: 

"Your  new  friend  is  very  pretty.  But  she  looks 
also  very  sad.  I  dare  say  she  was  not  very  happy 
with  her  husband." 

"I  am  also  of  that  opinion,"  said  Giacomo. 

"How  long  has  he  been  dead?" 

"She  did  not  say.  I  do  not  know  her  well  enough 
to  ask  her  such  an  intimate  question." 

The  Marchesa  had  always  made  up  her  mind  that 
she  would  try  and  like  the  woman  of  her  son's 
choice,  provided  that  there  was  nothing  actually 
against  her.  She  had  decided  to  do  this  when  she 
saw  regretfully  that  her  own  choice  was  not  likely 
to  meet  with  his  approval.  But  there  was  some- 
thing about  Gillian  that  had  seemed  a  little  strange 
and  alien  to  her  own  ideals.  It  was  not  that  she 


130  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

was  old,  but  that  she  looked  at  life  as  few  women 
in  their  early  twenties  are  accustomed  to  look  at  it, 
with  a  grave,  indifferent,  disillusioned  scrutiny,  as 
if  it  could  not  possibly  produce  any  more  surprises 
of  sorrow  and  pain.  It  was  thus  she  had  taken  Gil- 
lian's measure.  Scarcely  older  than  Giacomo,  she 
was  yet  a  hundred  years  too  old  for  him.  And  she 
could  not  help  suspecting  that  Giacomo  was  furi- 
ously interested  in  this  woman.  He  was  so  silent 
about  her;  he  did  not  seem  to  wish  to  discuss  her, 
yet  she  had  noticed  that  afternoon  that  he  had 
hardly  taken  his  eyes  off  her. 

Unknown  to  his  mother,  and  also,  it  must  be 
added,  unknown  to  Mrs.  Widness,  Giacomo  fetched 
Gillian  on  the  following  day  and  took  her  out  to 
Grottaferrata.  They  motored  over  in  time  for 
lunch,  and  he  had  arranged  they  should  have  tea  at 
his  villa  on  the  way  back.  The  day  was  fine,  and 
their  swift  rushing  through  the  warm  sweet  air 
brought  a  delicately  beautiful  colour  to  Gillian's 
face.  She  wore  a  little  close-fitting  black  silk  hat, 
and  had  tied  a  scarf  of  cobwebby  back  chiffon 
round  it.  The  dusky  setting  made  a  delicious  back- 
ground for  her  fair  skin,  and  Giacomo  noticed  it 
with  fervent  approval. 

The  freedom  of  their  intercourse,  their  expedi- 
tion, deliberately  unchaperoned,  lent  quite  a  novel 
zest  to  the  adventure.  Giacomo  was  in  high  spirits, 
and  he  infected  Gillian  with  something  of  his  own 
gaiety. 

To-day  Gillian  felt  a  little  reckless.  She  had  not 
moved  from  her  decision  made  the  other  night,  that 
if  he  again  asked  her  to  be  his  wife  she  would  accept 
him.  She  gave  little  thought  in  those  days  to  Paul 
Pallant;  she  had,  after  all,  made  him  no  promise. 
She  was  quite  free,  except  for  the  trivial  chain  that 
still  bound  her  to  Aylmer  Driscoll.  In  a  few  months' 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  131 

time  that  link  would  be  completely  severed,  and 
Aylmer  would  probably  marry  Deborah  Yen- 
ning as  soon  as  possible.  Yes,  she  was  free,  and 
she  was  conscious  that  Giacomo  had  much  to  give 
her.  It  might  be  that  marriage  with  this  young 
Italian  would  solve  the  problem  of  her  future  more 
fortunately  than  she  could  have  dared  to  hope.  He 
was  young,  rich,  splendidly  handsome,  and  of  noble 
birth.  And  he  loved  her.  Although  she  was  not  in 
the  least  in  love  with  him,  she  was  beginning  to 
like  him  very  much.  Marriage  was  not  really  a 
greater  hazard  based  upon  such  commonplace  lines. 
She  dreaded  love  as  a  thing  that  could  torture,  hurt, 
and  kill;  a  sword  with  two  edges,  a  weapon  placed 
in  the  hand  of  the  beloved  often  to  be  turned  against 
oneself  in  a  merciless,  mortal  blow. 

She  did  not  mean  as  yet  to  tell  him  about  Aylmer. 
As  long  as  nothing  was  definitely  settled  she  could 
keep  him  in  ignorance.  To-day  she  would  be  happy. 
She  looked  furtively  at  Giacomo.  His  dark  face 
was  vivid,  his  eyes  were  flaming;  he  looked  extraor- 
dinarily alive. 

"It's  a  beautiful  day,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Yes— perfect." 

"You  must  be  very  happy  to-day,"  he  told  her. 

"I  mean  to  be." 

"We  shall  be  together  all  through  this  long  spring 
day.  Does  that  please  you?" 

"Yes — it  pleases  me."  She  spoke  almost  shyly, 
afraid  as  yet  of  giving  him  any  clue  to  the  change 
that  had  come  over  her,  any  hint  of  her  new  defiant 
resolution. 

"Darling!"  he  said,  and  for  a  second  his  eyes 
rested  upon  her.  "Ah,  what  pretty  words  for  lovers 
you  have  in  English!  Darling — sweetheart — they 
are  prettier  even  than  amatissima  and 

Gillian  was  silent. 


132  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"Darling  I"  he  said  again,  smiling  at  her. 

"No — don't  call  me  that,"  she  said  with  an  effort, 
"I  don't  care  about  it." 

"When  we  are  married  I  shall  call  you  darling  all 
day  long!"  said  Giacomo  incorrigibly. 

"We  shall  never  be  married." 

"You  mean — you  won't  marry  me?" 

She  was  silent.  She  felt  that  to-day  he  intended 
to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife,  and  she  wanted  to  defer 
the  moment  as  long  as  possible. 

"Don't  let  us  talk  about  it  now,"  she  said  hastily. 

But  her  smile  as  she  spoke  reassured  Giacomo. 

Across  the  grassy  plain  of  the  Campagna  broken 
with  the  grey  old  arches  and  desolate  tombs,  and 
strewn  now  with  the  scarlet  flutter  of  thousands  of 
poppies,  they  followed  the  straight  white  road  to- 
wards Frascati,  with  the  Alban  hills  rising  before 
them  in  beautiful,  delicately  coloured  outlines.  Just 
short  of  the  town  they  turned  to  the  right  and 
climbed  the  hill  that  leads  to  Grottaferrata.  The 
white  dust  whirled  about  them,  but  Gillian's  face  and 
hair  were  shielded  by  her  veil. 

They  lunched  at  Grottaferrata.  It  was  a  simple 
little  meal,  but  they  were  both  hungry  and  enjoyed 
it.  It  consisted  of  risotto,  little  slices  of  veal  fol- 
lowed by  green  peas,  and  some  roast  chicken  with 
salad.  Fruit  and  golden-coloured  wine  completed 
the  repast.  Giacomo  ordered  coffee  and  they  had 
it  under  the  trees. 

"Then  for  tea  we  will  go  back  to  the  Villa  Mel- 
dola  at  Frascati,"  he  said. 

It  was  there  he  intended  to  ask  Gillian  to  be  his 
wife.  He  had  planned  it  all  with  care  and  fore- 
thought. Impetuous  as  he  seemed,  he  liked  to  make 
a  programme  and  follow  it.  And  he  wanted  his 
own  villa  to  be  the  venue  of  his  definite  proposal  of 
marriage.  He  wanted  to  be  able  to  remember  it 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  133 

always  as  the  place  where  they  had  plighted  their 
troth. 

Gillian  said  nothing  about  the  proposed  visit  to 
the  villa ;  she  was  not  sure  if  she  wished  to  go  there 
alone  with  Giacomo  to-day.  But  he  seemed  to  take 
it  quite  for  granted  that  she  would  come.  It  did 
not  take  them  very  long  to  visit  the  old  Badia  and 
the  principal  places  of  interest  in  the  little  hill  town. 
But  it  was  always  the  wide  view  of  the  Campagna 
with  distant  Rome  and  the  sea  beyond  that  held 
Gillian  entranced.  As  the  afternoon  wore  on, 
Giacomo's  gay  buoyancy  deserted  him  a  little;  he 
became  serious,  almost  moody.  Certain  scruples  re- 
asserted their  claim  rather  strongly.  And  the  fear 
that  he  might  not  ultimately  win  her  began  to  obsess 
him.  With  what  definiteness  she  had  said,  "We 
shall  never  be  married."  What  did  she  mean?  In 
his  new  silence  he  asked  himself  question  after  ques- 
tion about  that  unknown  never-mentioned  husband. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  loggia  at  the  Villa  Mel- 
dola  having  their  tea  when  he  leaned  suddenly  for- 
ward. Gillian  felt  instinctively  that  the  crucial  mo- 
ment had  come,  and  woman-like  she  shrank  a  little 
from  encountering  it. 

"Do  you  know  why  I  wanted  to  come  here  to- 
day?" he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  She  knew  now  that  she  must 
face  the  situation.  There  was  no  escape — and  did 
she  wish  to  escape?  Her  heart's  uncertainty  op- 
pressed her.  He  took  her  hands  and  there  was 
something  masterful,  almost  rough  in  his  touch. 

"I  love  you,"  he  said  softly,  "I  love  you,  darling 
Gillian.  Will  you  marry  me?  Will  you  be  my 
wife?" 

Her  heart  beat  so  rapidly  that  she  felt  almost 
suffocated.  And  now  he  had  come  over  to  her  side, 


134  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

had  raised  her  face  to  his.  She  felt  the  touch  of  his 
lips. 

She  felt  helpless  as  a  little  child  under  that  fierce 
caress.  They  seemed  suddenly  to  have  changed 
places,  and  she  felt  as  if  she  were  much  younger 
than  Giacomo.  She  put  out  her  hands  in  feeble 
protest. 

"I  can't  answer  now,"  she  said  at  last,  "y°u  must 
wait  a  little.  I  couldn't  marry  you — we  know  each 
other  so  little." 

"Gillian,"  he  said,  "that  is  no  answer  at  all.  Let 
us  be  engaged  now,  and  then  we  can  be  married — • 
perhaps  in  the  summer." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  be  married  in  the  summer,"  she 
said  impulsively. 

The  law  would  only  make  her  free  in  July.  Until 
then.  .  .  . 

"You  have  come  too  soon,"  she  said  in  a  low, 
constrained  tone. 

"If  you  prefer  to  wait  till  the  autumn,"  he  said, 
looking  for  the  moment  genuinely  puzzled,  "it  shall 
be  as  you  wish.  All  I  ask  you  now  is  to  promise  that 
you  will  be  my  wife.  You  are  torturing  me,  Gillian, 
by  keeping  me  in  this  suspense !" 

"I  couldn't  be  married  sooner  than  October,"  said 
Gillian  doubtfully. 

There  was  silence  after  she  had  spoken.  His  grip 
on  her  hands  relaxed.  He  even  moved  away  and 
stood  a  few  yards  from  her  on  the  terrace  looking 
over  the  Campagna.  His  face  was  set  and  very 
paie.  Through  the  break  in  the  ilex  grove  they 
could  see  the  sea  shimmering  in  the  sunlight  that 
made  a  path  of  gold  across  its  silver. 

He  turned  and  moved  back  to  her. 

"Will  you  promise  to  marry  me  in  October,  Gil- 
lian?" he  said. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

An  appreciable  pause  followed.  Gillian  was 
thinking  perhaps  more  of  Paul  then  than  of  Aylmer. 
Had  not  Paul  wished  to  bind  her  to  this  very  thing? 
But  Paul  belonged  to  the  old  life  from  which  she 
longed  so  ardently,  so  passionately,  to  free  herself. 
Paul's  claim  had  become  a  little  pale.  She  was  glad 
to  think  she  had  never  made  any  promise  to  him. 
Yet  when  she  left  England  she  had  certainly  thought 
that  one  of  these  days  when  her  wound  had  healed 
a  little  she  would  marry  Paul.  She  felt  confused 
and  bewildered.  Here  was  a  man  whom  she  had 
known  less  than  a  month  who  wished  to  marry  her, 
who  wanted  to  bind  her  to  a  definite  engagement. 
Still  less  did  she  understand  her  own  heart  that  in 
unison  with  her  brain  was  urging  her  to  accept  him 
as  her  future  husband. 

"Yes,"  she  said  at  last,  "if  you  still  wish  it  I  will 
marry  you  next  October.  But  you  must  keep  my 
promise  to  you  a  secret.  You  mustn't  tell  any  one." 

"I  shall  tell  my  mother,"  said  Giacomo;  "she  is 
always  in  my  confidence,  but  she  will  respect  your 
wishes." 

He  came  then  and  knelt  down  near  her,  enfolding 
her  in  his  arms.  His  lips  sought  hers.  Gillian 
yielded  to  his  embrace.  She  felt  most  intensely 
happy,  tranquil,  at  peace.  She  felt  that  he  would 
assuredly  teach  her  to  love  him. 

"Oh,  how  I  love  you !"  he  said  at  last.  He  gazed 
into  her  eyes.  "My  beloved — my  wife  that  is  to  be. 
When  I  said  the  other  day  that  I  should  come  here 
for  my  honeymoon,  you  were  the  bride  I  was  dream- 
ing of.  I  was  thinking  of  the  days  we  should  spend 
here  together!" 

Gillian  surrendered  herself  to  the  spell  of  the  mo- 
ment. Giacomo  had  been  perhaps  more  wise  than 
he  knew  in  bringing  her  here  to  surroundings  that 
were  in  themselves  romantic  and  appealing.  As  it 


136  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

was,  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  scene,  the  delicious 
prospect  of  land  and  sea  outspread  before  them, 
mingled  in  her  thoughts'  with  his'  caressing,  pas- 
sionate words,  giving  them  an  unusual  and  individual 
significance. 

"It  will  still  be  lovely  here  in  October,"  he  said, 
"it  will  still  be  summer." 

No — to-day  she  could  not  tell  him  the  truth.  She 
could  not  spoil  his  pleasure,  his  happiness,  by  reveal- 
ing her  own  past  sadness,  and  the  barrier  that  still 
reared  itself  so  darkly  between  them.  He  evoked 
in  her  a  curious  almost  maternal  tenderness.  She 
put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him.  The 
spontaneous  embrace  touched  him.  He  looked  into 
her  eyes. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "you  must  relent,  you  must  take 
away  this  hard  condition.  If  you  loved  me  as  I 
love  you,  you  would  not  wish  to  wait  so  many  months. 
We  are  neither  of  us  children.  What  is  there  to 
wait  for?  Why,  we  may  not  be  alive  next  October !" 

Gillian's  face  was  curiously  white  and  obstinate  at 
that  moment. 

"I  am  going  to  keep  to  that  condition  neverthe- 
less," she  said.  "And  you  are  not  to  torment  me 
about  it.  You  mustn't  ask  me  to  change." 

He  put  his  face  for  a  moment  lightly  against 
hers. 

"It  shall  be  as  you  wish,"  he  said  gently,  realising 
that  she  had  some  good  reason  for  the  request.  "But 
will  you  not  tell  me  why,  carinal" 

She  felt  afraid  then  that  he  intended  to  ask  her  a 
definite  question  and  insist  perhaps  upon  a  straight- 
forward answer.  She  did  not  wish  to  hurt  and  de- 
stroy this  beautiful  hour,  that  belonged  to  love 
alone,  with  any  harsh  statement  of  unpalatable 
truths.  It  came  into  her  mind  then  as  a  subtle  temp- 
tation that  she  would  rather  lie  to  Giacomo  than  risk 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  137 

losing  his  love.  What  did  his  love  mean  to  her? 
Was  it  of  so  much  more  worth  than  Paul's?  Was 
it  something  she  would  die  rather  than  lose?  What 
did  it  mean  then — this  new  cold  fear  of  losing  him? 
Did  it  mean  that  she,  too,  was  beginning  to  care  for 
him,  beginning  to  love  him? 

"Don't  ask  me,  please,  Giacomo,"  she  said. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  called  him  by  his 
name.  She  was  unaccustomed  to  speak  Italian,  she 
uttered  it  slowly,  hesitatingly. 

"Oh,"  he  said  adoringly,  "how  pretty  you  make 
my  name  sound!" 

Another  doubt  occurred  to  her. 

"You  are  sure  your  mother  will  keep  our  secret? 
I  shouldn't  like  the  Widnesses  or  Lady  Lucy  to  get 
hold  of  any — gossip." 

She  was  suddenly  afraid  of  Lady  Lucy,  who  had 
been  so  shocked  at  the  bare  idea  of  a  divorce;  she 
feared  that  she  might  make  premature  disclosures. 

"You  can  trust  my  mother,"  said  Giacomo 
proudly.  "Her  only  objection  to  our  marriage  will 
be  because  you  are  not  a  Catholic." 

He  said  it  almost  timidly,  watching  her  face  to 
see  what  effect  the  words  had  upon  her. 

"So  few  Englishwomen  are.  I  can't  see  that  it 
matters,"  Gillian  said  carelessly. 

"It  matters  very  much  to  people  who  are  as  pious 
as  my  mother.  I  am  sure  it  has  never  entered  her 
head  that  I  could  marry  any  one  who  wasn't  a 
Catholic." 

"You  said  just  now  that  we  were  neither  of  us 
children.  Surely  you  do  not  intend  always  to  re- 
main such  a  slave  to  your  mother's  narrow  preju- 
dices?" she  said,  almost  scornfully. 

She  was  beginning  to  see  that  such  a  mother-in- 
law  might  prove  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  that  per- 


138  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

feet  happiness  in  the  future  which  she  had  begun 
to  desire  so  passionately. 

"But  even  I  do  not  regard  them  as  narrow  preju- 
dices," he  retorted.  "Of  course  I  would  rather  my 
wife  were  a  Catholic!" 

There  was  silence  between  them  then.  The  sun 
was  dipping  over  the  sea  in  a  round  red  globe.  Some 
of  the  warmth  had  gone  out  of  the  air.  A  little 
wind  blew  across  the  Campagna  and  stirred  in  the 
ilex  trees  with  a  sound  as  of  faint  sobbing.  Gillian 
rose  to  her  feet. 

"Oughtn't  we  to  be  going  back,  Giacomo?" 

When  she  stood  thus  facing  him  she  seemed 
almost  as  tall  as  he  was;  her  eyes  were  so  little  be- 
low the  level  of  his  own.  He  needed  but  to  bend  his 
head  ever  so  slightly  to  stoop  and  kiss  her.  He 
clasped  her  hands  and  held  them  pressed  for  a  mo- 
ment against  his  lips. 

"How  beautiful  you  are,  my  Gillian,"  he  said 
softly. 

On  the  way  homeward  they  spoke  little.  The 
wind  had  dropped,  and  against  the  red  and  gold  of 
the  sunset  the  huge  massive  broken  arches  of  the 
aqueduct  of  Claudius  stood  in  frowning  silhouette, 
gaunt  and  desolate.  The  glow  touched  the  poppies 
to  a  deeper  crimson.  There  was  something  romantic 
in  the  solitude,  the  sadness  of  the  Campagna.  It 
was  as  if  they  had  suddenly  plunged  from  the  sunny 
fragrant  Frascati  garden  into  a  twilight  world  of 
sorrow  and  apprehension. 

He  pulled  up  the  car  at  a  lonely  place  in  the  road. 
No  other  vehicle  was  in  sight;  the  place  looked 
singularly  empty  and  uninhabited.  Far  off  the  blue 
Sabine  hills  lay  remote  and  as  if  asleep.  .  .  . 

"You  must  never  change,"  he  said;  "I  have  such 
a  fear  of  losing  you." 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  139 

She  smiled  up  at  him. 

"I  do  not  think  I  shall  change,"  she  said  softly. 

She  drew  almost  instinctively  a  little  nearer  to 
him.  He  gave  her  a  sense  of  safety  and  protection 
as  of  something  strong  that  would  die  to  shield  her. 

"Say  'I  love  you,  Giacomp,'  "  he  said  entreatingly. 
"Remember  you  haven't  said  it  yet." 

"I  love  you,  Giacomo,"  said  Gillian. 

The  words  rang  strangely  in  her  ears.  For  never 
had  the  irrevocable  past  held  her  so  strongly,  so 
persistently,  as  it  did  at  that  moment  when  she  first 
confessed  her  love  for  Giacomo. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  after  dinner  that  evening,  sitting  in  one  of 
the  faded  old  salons  of  the  Meldola  palace,  that 
Giacomo  informed  his  mother  of  his  engagement  to 
Mrs.  Driscoll. 

She  showed  no  surprise;  the  intelligence  seemed 
to  her  only  the  confirmation  of  the  great  fear  that 
had  possessed  her  heart  ever  since  she  had  been  to 
visit  Gillian.  She  had  recognised  the  extraordinary 
beauty  and  fascination  of  the  Englishwoman,  and  in 
her  heart  she  blamed  her  and  her  alone.  No  doubt 
she  had  deliberately  aimed  to  bring  this  desirable 
quarry  down.  .  .  . 

The  Marchesa  said  very  little.  She  listened  to 
Giacomo  with  attention,  but  there  was  neither  sym- 
pathy nor  pleasure  in  her  face.  He  told  her  plainly 
that  he  loved  Gillian — that  he  had  loved  her  indeed 
from  the  first  moment  they  had  met — that  she  re- 
turned his  love,  and  that  they  intended  to  be  married 
in  October. 

"Why  October?"  she  inquired,  raising  her  eye- 
brows. 

"She  doesn't  wish  to  be  married  sooner.  I  sup- 
pose she  will  have  business  things  to  see  to." 

"A  little  delay  will  not  hurt  either  of  you.  You 
can  scarcely  know  anything  at  all  about  each  other. 
How  long  has  she  been  a  widow?" 

"I  really  have  no  idea,"  said  Giacomo,  trying  to 
speak  carelessly. 

"Who  was  her  husband?" 

"She  never  talks  about  him.  I  think  she  could 
not  have  been  very  happy." 

"You  seem  to  have  asked  her  no  questions  at  all," 
said  his  mother  severely.  "Before  I  give  my  con- 

140 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  141 

sent  I  must  know  much  more  about  her.  How  long 
her  husband  has  been  dead — who  her  people  are — 
and  so  forth.  I  do  not  approve  of  this  sudden 
action  of  yours.  You  should  have  come  to  me  first. 
She  is  very  pretty,  but  she  is  not  at  all  the  wife  I 
should  have  chosen  for  you.  She  is  English — she 
knows  nothing  of  our  ways,  our  thoughts.  And  she 
is  a  great  deal  too  old  for  you." 

"She  cannot  be  more  than  two  years  older,"  said 
Giacomo,  stifling  his  indignation. 

"She  has  been  married  before — she  has  had  and 
lost  a  child.  She  is  years  older  than  you  are  in  the 
deeper  experiences  of  life.  And  you  know  that  I 
am  not  ambitious  for  you  in  the  way  of  desiring 
great  wealth.  I  only  wished  you  to  marry  some  nice 
young  girl  of  suitable  birth  who  has  been  carefully 
brought  up  and  who  is  a  good  Catholic." 

A  pause  followed  this  speech.  Giacomo  was  en- 
gaged in  repressing  his  rising  anger. 

"You  must  tell  her  frankly  that  before  I  give  my 
consent  you  must  ask  her  certain  questions.  We 
have  a  right  to  know  a  great  deal  more  about  her." 

"She  will,  I  am  sure,  tell  me  everything,"  said 
Giacomo,  rather  uneasily.  There  was  a  faint  mis- 
giving in  his  heart  which  he  could  not  explain.  Gil- 
lian was  very  reticent,  and  she  had  a  habit  of  elud- 
ing questions  and  inquiries,  as  if  he  had  no  right  to 
put  them.  But  surely  now  she  had  given  him  a  right. 
He  had  felt  that  she  was  always  on  the  alert  to 
check  any  manifestation  of  curiosity  on  his  part. 
Even  when  she  had  spoken  of  her  dead  child  she  had 
been  reserved  and  controlled.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
deliberately  intended  to  draw  aside  the  veil  that 
shrouded  this  solitary  and  poignant  episode  of  her 
past  life,  and  then  as  quickly  to  let  it  drop  back 
again  as  if  it  were  a  picture  too  precious  to  be  ex- 
posed for  more  than  a  brief  moment.  She  had  per- 


H2  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

mitted  him  to  know  about  her  child,  but  she  had 
never  mentioned  her  husband  to  him,  directly  or 
indirectly,  and  he  felt  now  while  seriously  reviewing 
their  conversations  that  all  his  attempts  to  discover 
anything  had  been  cleverly  baffled  and  parried.  He 
recognised  Gillian's  ability,  and  sometimes  he  had 
felt  inclined  to  resent  it.  Only  when  he  was  with 
her  all  resentiment  quickly  vanished.  He  was 
deeply,  ardently  in  love  with  her.  .  .  . 

He  came  over  and  put  his  arms  round  his  mother's 
neck. 

"I  am  sure  you  will  not  withhold  your  consent," 
he  said  gently;  "when  you  know  her  you  will  love 
her  as  much  as  I  do.  And  you  will  have  heaps  of 
time  between  now  and  October  to  convert  her.  I  am 
sure  she  has  no  prejudices — she  is  only  completely 
ignorant  of  the  Faith.  I  want  her  to  be  a  Catholic 
almost  as  much  as  you  do." 

The  Marchesa  relented  a  little. 

"I  will  try  and  love  her  for  your  sake,"  she  said 
mollified. 

That  Gillian  had  insisted  upon  delaying  their  mar- 
riage until  October  was  a  point  that  told  enormously 
in  her  favour.  She  evidently  did  not  wish  to  put 
the  final  seal  on  her  triumph  by  rushing  Giacomo 
into  an  immediate  marriage. 

"She  wishes  also  that  our  engagement  may  be 
kept  strictly  secret,"  he  went  on;  "we  are  only  be- 
trothed unofficially.  She  doesn't  want  it  talked 
about.  I  made  her  this  promise  on  your  behalf  as 
well  as  on  my  own." 

The  Marchesa  marvelled  a  little  at  this  second 
unusual  and  strange  condition.  Like  the  first,  how- 
ever, it  found  considerable  favour  in  her  eyes.  An 
engagement  conducted  in  the  curious  English  man- 
ner of  absolute  secrecy,  though  unknown  in  Italy, 
could  be  far  more  easily  broken  off.  Gillian  was 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  143 

not  going  to  make  a  public  display  of  her  victim. 
And  perhaps  it  would  be  possible  without  divulging 
the  real  truth  to  give  Mrs.  Widness  a  hint  that  for 
the  present  Giacomo's  affections  were  otherwise 
engaged. 

Whether  Gillian  had  really  sought  to  ensnare 
Giacomo  the  Marchesa  could  not  exactly  say,  but 
the  evidence  so  far  was  all  in  favour  of  her  having 
presented  the  young  man  with  quite  unusual  oppor- 
tunities of  escape  should  he  grow  prematurely  tired 
of  the  situation.  How  odd  it  was  that  she  herself 
should  find  it  so  very  difficult  to  trust  Mrs.  Driscoll. 
She  had  roused  within  the  Marchesa  an  instinctive 
maternal  impulse  to  protect  her  offspring.  But  she 
wisely  concealed  these  suspicions  from  her  son.  Let 
him  go  first  and  find  out  what  he  could.  Let  him 
return  to  her  with  chapter  and  verse  of  all  she 
wished  to  know  concerning  his  future  wife. 

When  Giacomo  left  his  mother  and  went  up  to 
his  own  apartment  he  felt  his  happiness  a  little 
dashed  by  her  attitude.  He  had  been  so  steeped  in 
the  glamour  of  love  and  happiness,  an  enchantment 
that  wrapped  him  round  with  soft  rose-coloured  airs 
enfolding  him  tenderly,  that  he  had  scarcely  stopped 
to  ask  himself  concerning  those  matters  which  were 
inevitably  the  objects  of  his  mother's  anxious  solici- 
tude. Now  they  had  awakened  within  him  an 
anxiety  scarcely  less  profound  than  her  own.  He 
tried  to  put  them  aside,  to  think  only  of  Gillian,  to 
recall  in  imagination  the  touch  of  her  little  soft  fin- 
gers, the  kiss  she  had  spontaneously  given  him.  His 
day  had  slipped  past  in  a  lovely  dream.  The  places 
they  had  seen  together  would  be  for  ever,  he  be- 
lieved, hallowed  for  him  by  the  remembrance  of 
her. 

Colder,  calmer  reflection  showed  him  that  he  was 
still  very  far  from  either  being  in  possession  of,  or 


i44  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

of  acquiring,  the  knowledge,  exact  and  particular, 
which  his  mother  required.  Gillian  was  an  orphan, 
he  knew;  she  had  told  him  that  she  did  not  remem- 
ber her  mother,  she  had  been  brought  up  by  two  old 
aunts  in  Bath.  He  was  utterly  ignorant  about  all 
the  circumstances  of  her  first  marriage,  and  also 
about  the  extent  of  her  fortune.  He  believed  that 
she  muat  be  rather  a  rich  woman.  But  again  he  had 
the  sense  that  he  had  been  perpetually  baffled  by 
Gillian.  There  had  been  so  many  things  which  he 
ought  to  have  asked,  could  indeed  have  asked  after 
he  had  elicited  that  promise  from  her  that  she  would 
marry  him.  Yet  he  had  concerned  himself  alone 
with  the  much  more  agreeable  task  of  making  love 
to  her.  She  had  responded  to  bis  love,  not  very 
warmly  perhaps,  and  with  some  hesitation,  but  at 
least  tenderly  and  sincerely,  and  quite  sufficiently  in 
any  case  to  assure  him  that  in  the  future  all  would 
be  well. 

In  October.  .  .  .  How  many  months  away  was 
that  month  1  .  .  .  He  pictured  to  himself  Frascati, 
and  especially  the  Villa  Meldola  in  October.  The 
vendemmia  would  be  over  then,  with  its  sweet  fra- 
grance of  ripened  grapes,  and  the  trailing  vines 
would  be  hung  with  a  trellis  of  scarlet  and  golden 
leaves.  There  would  be  yellowing  tints  on  the  plane 
trees  and  poplars,  and  scarlet  and  crimson  ones  on 
the  maples.  And  in  the  early  morning  there  would 
be  down  in  the  Campagna  a  deep,  deep  white  bank 
of  mist.  The  Alban  hills  would  emerge  as  it  were 
from  that  white  dripping  sea.  There  would  be 
a  delicious  autumn  crispness  in  that  early  morning 
air  to  set  the  blood  tingling.  And  then  the  day 
would  become  like  summer  with  clear  blue  skies  and 
hot  sunshine,  dying  at  last  in  a  wonderful  crimson 
sunset  that  would  paint  with  rose-colour  the  wide 
brown  Campagna  and  the  sea  lying  beyond.  There 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  145 

would  be  wet  days,  too— beautiful  also  in  their 
austerity — when  wild  winds  would  lash  the  hills  with 
fierce  storms  of  rain,  and  he  and  Gillian  would  seek 
refuge  within  the  walls  of  the  Villa  in  rooms  made 
cosy  and  cheerful  with  great  wood  fires.  And  when 
the  storm  passed  they  would  wander  again  in  the 
grave  ilex-shadowed  gardens,  drinking  intoxicating 
draughts  of  happiness. 

Yet — why  had  she  insisted  upon  this  secrecy?  He 
wanted  to  tell  every  one  of  his  new  happiness !  Why 
had  she  laid  down,  too,  this  hard  condition  of  delay? 
Silence  and  delay.  .  .  .  There  was  nothing  of  the 
shy  novice  in  Gillian.  She  had  a  will  of  her  own, 
and  Giacomo  had  been  compelled  to  submit  to  it  with 
indeed  scarcely  a  protest.  He  had  clearly  seen  that 
if  he  were  to  win  her  at  all  it  must  be  exclusively 
upon  her  own  terms.  Submission  was  necessary,  and 
he  had  yielded  at  least  with  outward  willingness. 
The  thought  hurt  his  pride  a  little.  If  she  had  been 
a  young  girl,  all  future  plans  would  have  been  simply 
discussed  with  her  parents,  and  she  would  have  had 
no  say  in  the  matter  at  all ;  she  would  have  had  less 
to  do  with  the  arrangements  than  any  one.  But  Gil- 
lian had  dictated  her  conditions  with  a  little  air  of 
definite  assurance,  with  a  careless  pride  that 
wounded  him  while  it  evoked  his  admiration.  And 
with  it  all  he  now  recognised  that  there  had  been  a 
baffling  silence  and  reserve  which  had  actually 
seemed  to  forbid  him  at  his  peril  to  ask  questions. 

He  himself  was  so  much  in  love  that  he  would 
have  married  Gillian  without  any  further  definite 
knowledge,  except  just  what  was  required  to  satisfy 
his  own  mind  and  the  ecclesiastical  authorities  that 
it  could  be  done  legally  and  without  flaw.  The 
Council  of  Trent  had  laid  down  certain  arbitrary 
conditions  concerning  marriage; — had  any  one  any 


i46  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

right  to  demand  more  than   that  these  should  be 
rigorously  complied  with? 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Marchesa  Meldola  was 
summoned  suddenly  to  Ancona,  to  the  bedside  of  an 
old  cousin  who  was  said  to  be  dying.  She  was 
obliged  to  leave  Rome  on  the  very  day  following 
Giacomo's  announcement  of  his  engagement  to  Mrs. 
Driscoll.  If  anything,  her  absence  at  that  juncture 
was  a  matter  of  relief  to  the  young  man.  He  could 
forgo  for  the  time  being  the  task  of  questioning  Gil- 
lian. His  mother  would  not  be  there  expecting  daily 
to  be  informed  of  those  particulars  she  considered 
essential  before  she  gave  her  consent.  He  could 
come  back  home  in  the  evening  without  fearing  to 
encounter  her  inquiries.  So  he  put  off  from  day  to 
day  the  task  which  hourly  grew  more  difficult  and 
mpre  repugnant  to  him. 

Rome  was  being  rapidly  deserted  by  the  forestleri. 
May  was  now  in  the  last  week  of  her  radiant  beauty. 
Surely,  Giacomo  thought,  he  could  never  remember 
such  a  perfect  May — such  days  of  ravishing  sun- 
shine and  beauty.  The  Widnesses  had  gone  to 
Genoa  to  see  some  friends  who  had  just  arrived 
there  from  New  York,  and  the  date  of  their  return 
to  Rome  had  not  been  decided.  Lady  Lucy  Ferrard, 
seeing  that  the  game  was  up  when  Grace  Widness 
reappeared  on  the  scene,  had  taken  the  disappointed 
Patience  to  the  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new  of 
Florence.  The  later  development  which  coupled 
Giacomo's  name  ever  so  slightly  with  that  of  Mrs. 
Driscoll  had  not  reached  her  ears.  She  explained 
her  departure  by  saying  that  Patience  was  anaemic 
and  found  the  climate  of  Rome  too  enervating. 

Gillian  deferred  from  day  to  day  the  enlighten- 
ment of  Giacomo.  No  one  knew  of  the  long  hours 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  147 

they  spent  in  each  other's  company.  Day  after  day 
he  fetched  her  in  the  car,  a  fairy  coach  which  seemed 
to  transport  them  both  into  realms  of  serene  and 
tranquil  happiness  apart  from  the  whole  world. 
They  explored  together  all  the  old-world  towns  that 
cling  like  jewels  to  the  crests  and  spurs  of  the 
Castelli  Romani;  they  wandered  by  their  blue  lakes, 
and  in  their  cool  shadowy  woods.  If  their  youth 
and  beauty  attracted  attention  no  one  knew  who 
they  were;  they  had  scarcely  ever  encountered 
friends  or  acquaintances  in  those  enchanted  expedi- 
tions. Gillian  was  happy,  even  very  happy,  but  she 
felt  always  that  not  very  far  off,  Atropos  was  stand- 
ing, grimly  waiting  with  her  shears.  There  must 
inevitably  come  a  day  when  she  would  have  to  tell 
Giacomo  that  she  was  not  a  widow,  that  the  tie  that 
bound  her  to  her  husband  was  not  yet  dissolved.  Of 
course  it  would  make  no  difference  to  him,  to  his 
love  for  her,  which  seemed  to  deepen  daily — but  it 
might  cause  all  sorts  of  other  difficulties  and  prevent 
the  Marchesa  from  giving  her  consent.  There  were 
rocks  ahead.  Gillian,  knowing  nothing  of  the  Cath- 
olic religion  and  its  very  strict  laws  about  the  sacra- 
ment of  marriage,  was  quite  unaware  of  the  formid- 
able nature  of  those  rocks. 

Each  unknown  to  the  other  was  bent  upon  evad- 
ing for  the  present  the  same  difficult  task.  Gillian 
began  to  wish  she  had  told  Giacomo  much  earlier, 
so  that  he  might  have  known  the  worst  before  his 
definite  proposal  of  marriage.  But  almost  from  the 
beginning  she  had  been  actuated  by  that  passionate 
desire,  almost  unscrupulous  in  its  intensity,  to  drink 
deep  and  unalloyed  draughts  of  her  present  hap- 
piness. If  she  did  not  actually  love  Giacomo  at  the 
beginning,  she  loved  the  love  that  he  gave  her.  She 
was  proud  of  it.  It  made  her  violently  happy;  it 
lulled  her  pain  and  robbed  the  failure  of  her  first 


148  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

marriage  of  much  of  its  sting  and  bitterness.  Gia- 
como  had  restored  her  pride  and  self-respect.  She 
was  so  grateful  to  him  that  gratitude  soon  found  its 
expression  in  love.  After  two  years  of  neglect  she 
found  it  agreeable  to  be  adored  as  he  adored  her. 
And  thus  it  became  from  day  to  day  harder  for  her 
to  speak  and  tell  him  the  truth.  She  could  not  now 
envisage  that  scene  when  his  enlightenment  would 
have  to  be  accomplished.  There  was  a  grave  ele- 
ment of  risk  in  it.  She  had  realised  long  ago  that 
there  was  a  fundamental  and  integral  hardness  and 
prudence  lying  behind  all  Giacomo's  surface  friv- 
olity. She  would  find  herself  at  grips  with  forces 
whose  strength  she  could  not  measure — unknown  in- 
herited spiritual  forces  that  held  him,  influenced  him, 
dominated  him. 

Gillian  was  aware  that  she  had  not  acted  with  the 
frankness  that  had  been  Giacomo's  simple  due  and 
right  when  first  they  became  engaged.  It  could  not 
be  said,  however,  that  she  had  any  intention  of  de- 
ceiving him  permanently.  Lightly  entering  upon  the 
adventure,  she  had  not  foreseen  that  it  would  pres- 
ently engulf  her.  She  awoke  one  day  to  find  that 
her  brain  guided  her  no  more;  her  very  heart  had 
turned  traitor.  She  loved  Giacomo  with  a  love 
beside  which  her  girlish  love  for  Aylmer  had  become 
a  pale  thing  of  no  consequence,  and  one  that  also 
seemed  in  retrospect  wholly  incomprehensible.  This 
new  and  fierce  love  kept  her  silent  and  afraid.  She 
feared  to  lose  Giacomo.  She  put  off  the  evil 
day.  .  .  . 

They  were  sitting  one  beautiful  evening  in  early 
June  on  the  terrace  at  the  Villa  Meldola.  The  roses 
were  in  their  full  beauty,  the  creamy  old  walls  of 
the  house  seemed  to  drip  with  blossom,  crimson  and 
golden.  A  pomegranate  tree  in  the  orchard  below 
was  aglow  with  fiery  red  bloom.  It  was  very  still, 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  149 

very  warm.  Far  off  Rome  lay  in  the  plain,  a  golden 
city  in  the  evening  light.  All  the  wide  Campagna, 
too,  lay  steeped  in  that  golden  haze  which  trans- 
figured everything. 

"Are  you  happy?"  he  said  at  last. 

Her  hand  slipped  into  his. 

"So  very  happy,  Giacomo." 

"Happier  than  ever  before?" 

Something  of  that  quiet  joyousness  of  hers  seemed 
to  fade  out  of  her  face.  He  knew  that  look — any 
allusion  to  past  days  had  the  power  to  summon  it  and 
to  intensify  the  sadness  of  her  eyes. 

"I  feel  now  as  if  I  had  never  been  happy — in  the 
old  days,"  she  answered. 

"You  have  never  told  me  anything  of  those  days," 
he  reminded  her.  "At  least  hardly  anything." 

"I  do  not  care  to  speak  of  it.  But  some  day  I 
will  tell  you  all  about  it.  Not  to-day." 

She  had  trembled  then  upon  the  brink  of  confes- 
sion. But  a  wish  not  to  spoil  that  perfect  evening 
prevented  her  from  speaking. 

Giacomo's  heart  beat  a  little  quickly.  For  the  first 
time  a  real  and  definite  fear  possessed  him  as  to  the 
nature  of  that  communication.  He  had  had  many 
misgivings  before,  but  he  had  never  felt  as  he  did 
now  that  it  might  be  something  which  could  actually 
hurt  and  destroy  their  happiness. 

"Don't  tell  me  now,"  he  said  quietly,  "let  us  talk 
only  of  happy  things  this  evening." 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  her.  When  he  looked 
at  her  again  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  "I  want 
to  know  everything,  of  course,"  he  said  presently; 
"you  know  I  am  sometimes  jealous  of  those  past 
days." 

She  said  in  a  strained  hoarse  tone :  "You  need  not 
be  jealous.  There  is  only  one  memory  of  it  all  that 
I  wish  to  keep.  You  know  what  that  is." 


150  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"You  cannot  tell  me  anything  that  would  alter 
my  love  for  you,"  he  said,  "I  love  you  too  much.  I 
am  afraid  of  those  months  that  lie  ahead  of  us — 
afraid  of  their  power  to  take  you  away  from  me." 

She  said  slowly,  "If  we  are  ever  to  be  separated  it 
will  be  by  your  wish,  not  by  mine." 

"You  are  very  safe  in  my  hands,"  he  answered 
gravely. 

"If  your  mother  withheld  her  consent  in  the  end 
would  you  still  marry  me?"  she  asked,  almost 
timidly. 

"My  mother  would  never  do  anything  so  cruel. 
You  need  not  be  afraid  of  that." 

"But  if  she  did?" 

"She  wouldn't,  unless  of  course  there  were  a 
grave  reason!" 

"And  if  there  were — what  she  considered — a 
grave  reason?  .  .  ." 

"Darling,  these  are  idle  questions.  My  mother 
has  this  power  over  me,  that  she  can  spend  her 
money  as  she  chooses.  If  she  disapproved  she 
might  refuse  to  give  me  any.  I  have  very  little  of 
my  own." 

"Oh,  it  wouldn't  be  a  question  of  money,"  said 
Gillian,  rather  relieved.  "I  have  plenty  for  us 
both.  I  mean — we  shouldn't  be  very  rich,  but  we 
could  live  here  very  comfortably  on  my  money.  In 
that  sense  we  should  be  perfectly  independent  of 
your  mother." 

"Oh,  but  that  would  make  me  dependent  on  you, 
wouldn't  it?"  said  Giacomo.  "I'm  not  sure  that  I 
should  like  that!" 

"But  you  wouldn't  let  it  be  an  obstacle?" 

"My  dearest — we  are  discussing  a  very  idle  ques- 
tion. You  are  pre-supposing  that  there  is  a  grave 
reason  which  might  make  my  mother  refuse  her  con- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  151 

sent  and  refuse,  too,  to  give  me  any  money.  How 
can  there  be  such  a  reason?" 

Again  the  confession  trembled  on  her  lips.  But 
with  a  swift  illuminating  recognition  she  understood 
that  Giacomo  had  parried  her  question;  he  would 
not  tell  her  how  far  he  should  consider  himself 
bound  by  filial  duty  in  the  question  of  their  marriage. 

"And  there  is  not — there  could  never  be  any  grave 
reason,"  he  persisted,  almost  as  if  he  were  saying 
the  words  to  convince  himself  of  their  truth.  "I 
mean  a  serious  reason  that  could  separate  us  ulti- 
mately." 

This  time  Gillian  did  not  answer  him.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  with  a  dreamy  intensity  upon  the  lovely 
scene  outspread  before  her.  The  beauty  of  the 
evening  held  her  spellbound.  She  tried  to  suppress 
that  cold  fear  that  was  laying  its  icy  fingers  upon 
her  heart  .  .  .  the  fear  that  only  love  can  awaken, 
that  is  only  associated  with  the  thought  of  losing  the 
beloved.  And  in  the  grip  of  this  fear  she  drove 
back  that  evening  to  Rome  with  Giacomo,  scarcely 
speaking  a  word.  It  had  come  so  close,  it  had 
seemed  to  touch  her. 

"Are  you  tired?  You  are  looking  so  white,"  he 
said,  with  a  tender  solicitude,  as  he  helped  her  to 
descend  in  the  Via  Sistina. 

"Yes — I  am  tired,"  she  said. 

"You  have  had  too  long  a  day,"  he  said  quietly, 
"you  must  have  a  good  rest." 

"Yes.  Don't  come  and  see  me  this  evening,  Gia- 
como— I  think  I  want  to  be  alone." 

His  bright  face  showed  disappointment. 

"Very  well.  I  will  come  round  to-morrow  and 
see  if  you  would  care  to  go  out." 

She  stood  watching  him  as  he  got  into  the  car  and 
drove  away. 


CHAPTER  XII 

LADY  LUCY  FERRARD  was  unconsciously  the  God 
in  the  Machine.  She  had  no  idea  of  the  prog- 
ress of  events,  for  she  had  seen  very  little  more  of 
Gillian  while  she  remained  in  Rome.  But  while  in 
Florence  she  met  Mrs.  Widness  for  the  first  time, 
when  dining  at  the  villa  of  a  mutual  friend,  and 
some  chance  words  from  this  lady  gave  her  the  clue 
to  what  was  passing. 

Mr.  Widness  and  Grace  were  also  present.  They 
had  stopped  a  few  days  in  Florence  on  their  return 
journey  to  Rome.  Their  future  plans  were  a  little 
vague,  and  they  felt  that  if  Giacomp  were  really 
going  to  marry  this  attractive  English  widow  to 
whom  his  mother  admitted  he  was  showing  a  good 
deal  of  attention,  it  might  be  prudent  to  take  a  trip 
over  to  the  States  and  give  Grace  an  opportunity  of 
forgetting  him. 

"We've  often  heard  of  you  through  the  Mel- 
dolas,"  she  said,  "so  I'm  really  very  pleased  in- 
deed to  make  your  acquaintance,  Lady  Lucy.  The 
Marchesa  is  such  a  very  old  friend  of  ours  and  I 
have  sometimes  met  your  charming  elder  daughter, 
Marchesa  Guido,  at  her  house.  Such  a  sweet  pretty 
creature." 

Lady  Lucy  smiled  and  made  a  conventional  reply. 

She  carried  the  war  then,  if  not  into  the  enemy's 
country,  at  least  to  his  boundaries. 

"I  hope  it  is  true  then,"  she  said,  "that  your 
daughter  is  about  to  be  engaged  to  the  younger 
Meldola.  We  heard  something  of  it  before  we  left 
Rome!" 

Mrs.  Widness  coloured  slightly. 

"I'm  very  sorry  if  there's  been  any  gossip  of  tha.t 
152 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  153 

kind,  Lady  Lucy,"  she  said,  with  a  glance  at  Grace, 
who  was  talking  to  Patience  Ferrard  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room.  "There's  just  no  truth  in  it  at  all. 
The  young  people  were  great  friends — nothing 
more.  And  Giacomo  is  very  much  taken  up  now 
with  a  charming  young  English  widow  who  came  to 
Rome  in  the  spring — Mrs.  Driscoll." 

Lady  Lucy  was  surprised  into  an  immediate  state- 
ment of  the  truth. 

"Oh,  but  Mrs.  Driscoll  isn't  a  widow,"  she  said, 
with  a  look  of  extreme  astonishment.  "I've  known 
her  ever  since  she  was  a  girl.  She  had  a  very  bad 
husband,  and  she  was  obliged  to  divorce  him  just 
before  she  came  abroad.  The  whole  thing's  been 
a  great  shock  to  her." 

"Do  you  mean  she's  got  a  husband  living?"  in- 
quired Mrs.  Widness. 

"Oh  yes.  Aylmer  Driscoll  is  still  a  comparatively 
young  man.  It  is  a  miserable  position  for  poor  dear 
Gillian." 

"Then  if  that's  true,  Giacomo  can't  possibly 
marry  her,"  said  Mrs.  Widness  with  conviction. 

"Of  course  he  can't.  I  suppose  he  knows  her 
story  and  is  sorry  for  her." 

Now  Marchesa  Meldola,  without  divulging  the 
actual  truth  about  her  son's  engagement  to  Mrs. 
Driscoll,  had  thought  it  only  kind  to  give  Mrs. 
Widness  a  hint  that  his  affections  were  at  least  tem- 
porarily engaged.  Mrs.  Widness  knew  that  the 
object  of  his  affections  could  only  be  Gillian  Dris- 
coll. Rumours  had  reached  her  ears  that  they  had 
been  constantly  seen  together.  But  this  informa- 
tion gave  a  perfectly  different  aspect  to  the  situa- 
tion. The  young  man  must  either  be  in  total  igno- 
rance of  Mrs.  DriscolPs  history,  or  he  must  have 
deceived  his  mother  on  the  subject.  A  feeling  of 
indignation  against  Gillian  surged  into  Mrs.  Wid- 


154  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

ness's  heart.  This  woman  must  have  deliberately 
plotted  and  planned  the  overthrowal  of  Grace's  hap- 
piness. She  had  herself  spoken  to  her  quite  frankly 
upon  the  subject  of  Grace  and  Giacomo  on  the  day 
of  their  first  meeting  at  Frascati. 

"It's  quite  impossible,"  continued  Lady  Lucy 
charitably,  "that  he  could  have  been  showing  her 
serious  attention.  But  a  young  and  pretty  woman 
who  has  been  badly  treated  by  her  husband  can 
always  command  unlimited  sympathy  from  men!" 

"I  think  there  was  more  than  sympathy  on  Gia- 
como's  part,"  said  Mrs.  Widness  dryly;  "she 
lunched  with  us  all  at  Frascati  at  the  very  beginning 
of  their  acquaintance,  and  even  then  he  could  hardly 
take  his  eyes  off  her." 

It  had  been  a  day  of  petty  humiliation  for  Grace, 
who  had  ended  it  by  a  violent  fit  of  hysterical  cry- 
ing. She  was  still  looking  wretchedly  ill  and  thin, 
for  she  had  taken  the  dispossession  greatly  to  heart. 

"I  introduced  them  to  each  other,"  said  Lady 
Lucy;  "they  both  dined  with  us  one  evening  when 
Guido  and  Imogen  were  there.  But  I  didn't  care 
for  Patience  to  see  too  much  of  Gillian  under  the 
circumstances.  With  a  young  girl  I  felt  I  could  not 
be  too  careful  1" 

She  glanced  across  the  room  at  that  meek  fair 
head. 

The  result  of  this  interview  between  the  two 
ladies,  who  had  both  felt  themselves  to  have  been  in 
some  sense  vicariously  defrauded,  was  that  they  each 
wrote  a  letter  forthwith  to  the  Marchesa  Meldola. 

The  first  to  reach  her,  forwarded  to  Ancona  from 
Rome,  was  Lady  Lucy's,  and  it  ran  as  follows : — 

"When  I  introduced  Giacomo  to  Mrs.  Aylmer 
Driscoll  in  Rome  I  did  not  imagine  that  the  acquaint- 
ance would  go  any  further,  so  I  omitted  to  tell  him 
her  history,  which  is  really  a  very  sad  one.  I  have 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  155 

since  heard  that  they  have  become  great  friends,  and 
so  I  think  I  ought  to  write  and  tell  you  that  she  has 
quite  recently  divorced  her  husband,  who  treated 
her  very  badly.  No  doubt  they  were  most  unsuited 
to  each  other,  and  one  must  not  judge  poets  quite 
like  other  men- — one  has  only  to  remember  Shelley ! 
I  am  sure  Giacomo  by  this  time  is  acquainted  with 
her  history,  but  perhaps  you  could  give  him  a  hint 
that  his  attentions  are  at  least  exciting  comment.  I 
hope  you  will  not  blame  me  for  having  brought  them 
together,  but  I  hear  they  met  each  other  afterwards 
at  Mrs.  Homer  Widness's,  and  she,  knowing  noth- 
ing of  Mrs.  Driscoll,  imagined  from  something  you 
said  that  they  were  now  engaged." 

Mrs.  Widness's  letter  written  a  little  later  was 
much  to  the  same  effect,  it  only  confirmed  the  ill 
news  by  giving  scrupulously  all  the  details  which  she 
had  been  able  to  glean  from  Lady  Lucy.  But  in 
addition  she  did  also  somewhat  maliciously  intro- 
duce a  few  comments  of  her  own  upon  the  kind  of 
woman  she  held  Gillian  Driscoll  to  be,  and  how 
from  the  first  she  had  undoubtedly  laid  herself  out 
to  captivate  and  subjugate  the  Marchesa's  cherished 
young  son,  adding  a  hope  that  she  had  not  really  de- 
ceived him  about  her  actual  position. 

When  the  Marchesa  Meldola  received  Lady 
Lucy's  letter,  her  maternal  feelings  may  better  be 
imagined  than  described.  She  had  the  hot  temper 
of  her  race,  and  though  she  had  cultivated  a  rigid 
self-control  it  was  still  apt  on  occasion  to  assert  it- 
self. Her  present  rage  against  her  son  was  an 
emotion  she  had  never,  however,  felt  before,  and 
perhaps  it  was  fortunate  for  Giacomo  that  he  was 
in  Rome,  and  that  before  a  meeting  could  be  ac- 
complished her  anger  would  have  had  time  to  cool 
a  little. 

So  this  was  the  woman  he  had  desired  to  present 


156  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

to  her  as  a  daughter-in-law  1  A  woman  who  had 
divorced  her  husband  and  was  posing  as  a  bereaved 
widow  I  She  was  nothing  less  than  an  adventuress, 
rendered  doubly  dangerous  by  her  youth  and  beauty. 
The  Marchesa  told  herself  that  she  had  always  felt 
there  was  something  wrong  from  the  very  beginning. 
But  that  there  should  be  a  husband  still  alive  had 
never  entered  her  head.  Her  worst  fears  had  pic- 
tured an  irregular  union  in  the  past. 

No  one  witnessed,  her  ebullition  of  wrath,  which 
was  first  directed  against  Gillian  and  then  against 
Giacomo.  The  self-discipline  of  years  triumphed, 
and  she  soon  had  herself  well  in  hand.  But  though 
outwardly  calm  her  thoughts  of  her  son  were  angry 
and  full  of  resentment.  He  had  wilfully  deceived 
her,  and  it  did  not  at  first  occur  to  her  that  he  him- 
self had  perhaps  been  deceived.  He  had  spoken  and 
written  much  to  her  of  the  beauty  and  charm  and 
goodness  of  Gillian,  whereas  he  must  have  known 
all  the  time  that  she  was  a  married  woman  who  had 
divorced  her  husband.  Her  first  action  was  to  send 
him  a  telegram.  "Come  at  once.  Most  urgent," 
ran  the  message. 

It  was  waiting  for  him  that  evening  after  he  had 
parted  from  Gillian  on  their  return  from  Frascati, 
and  he  made  rapid  preparations  to  set  out  by  the 
night  train.  He  scribbled  a  line  to  Gillian  saying  he 
hoped  to  be  back  on  the  following  evening;  there 
was  no  time  to  go  and  see  her.  He  wondered  a  lit- 
tle what  his  mother  could  possibly  want  him  for,  but 
it  never  once  occurred  to  him  that  it  was  in  any  way 
connected  with  Gillian. 

Gillian  sat  alone  in  her  salotto.  The  day  had  been 
very  hot  and  she  had  not  ventured  out  of  doors. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  when  the  evening  cool- 
ness had  set  in  that  she  would  drive  up  to  the  Pincio 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  157 

and  get  a  little  fresh  air.  She  felt  unusually  ex- 
hausted. She  was  also  beginning  to  feel  extremely 
anxious,  and  anxiety  made  her  restless  and  pre- 
occupied. She  tried  to  read,  but  could  not  settle  to 
anything.  It  was  now  three  days  since  Giacomo  had 
gone  to  his  mother  at  Ancona,  and  she  had  had  no 
word  from  him.  His  silence  and  absence  were 
pressing  very  heavily  upon  her. 

When  it  was  time  to  start  she  went  into  her  room 
and  put  on  a  dress  of  thin  white  muslin  made  very 
simply,  with  a  blouse  that  was  cut  open  at  the  throat, 
and  a  broad-brimmed  white  hat  adorned  with  wings. 
The  white  hat  made  her  look  too  pale,  it  was  almost 
unbecoming  she  thought,  but  she  did  not  change 
it  for  another.  Giacomo  was  not  there  to  see  her, 
and  nothing  else  mattered.  She  hired  a  carrozza 
and  drove  up  to  the  Pincio. 

Crowds  of  people  had  assembled  there,  and  the 
band  was  playing  under  the  ilex  trees.  The  flower 
beds  were  still  gay,  and  the  clumps  of  oleander  were 
aflame  with  fiery  blossom.  Women  in  their  light 
summer  costumes,  officers  and  soldiers  in  uniform, 
priests  in  shabby  black  soutanes,  groups  of  students 
from  the  various  colleges,  and  white-clad  children 
running  hither  and  thither,  all  contributed  their  in- 
dividual note  to  a  scene  that  was  always  varied  and 
interesting. 

Gillian  did  not  wish  to  stop  to  listen  to  the  music ; 
she  told  the  cabman  to  drive  on.  She  had  not  visited 
more  than  once  or  twice  this  typically  Roman  scene ; 
hitherto  her  days  had  been  fully  occupied  with  Gia- 
como. She  was  beginning  to  miss  him,  and  to  feel 
a  vague  uneasiness  about  his  absence.  She  had  not 
slept  well  last  night,  and  her  eyes  were  still  heavy 
and  sore.  She  missed  the  excitement  that  had  lent 
such  flavour  to  the  days  of  her  engagement.  Every- 
thing seemed  a  little  flat  without  Giacomo.  She 
wished  that  he  had  written  to  her  to  explain  his 


158  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

absence.  It  was  his  silence  that  was  so  incompre- 
hensible. Yet  conscience  warned  her  that  he  might 
be  in  possession  of  only  too  good  a  reason  for  re- 
maining both  absent  and  silent. 

She  had  shut  down  the  book  of  the  past,  definitely 
and  resolutely.  She  would  never  again  suffer  her- 
self to  be  enslaved  by  its  sordid  horror.  She  would 
think  only  of  the  future  that  promised  to  be  so 
bright.  But  to-day  the  thought  of  the  past  obtruded 
itself  against  her  will.  Had  Giacomo  slipped  away 
from  her?  She,  the  once  deserted,  felt  apprehen- 
sive of  a  fresh  abandonment.  Was  Giacomo  already 
wearying  of  her — even  as  Aylmer  had  wearied  of 
her?  It  was  the  fate  of  some  women  that  they  could 
evoke  love  but  never  fidelity. 

She  began  to  reproach  herself.  She  felt  a  little 
feeling  of  shame  that  she  had  so  readily  responded 
to  Giacomo's  words  of  love.  The  long  hours  she 
had  spent  alone  with  him  rose  before  her  now  like 
a  procession  of  accusers.  Had  she  made  herself  too 
"cheap"?  The  thought  was  hateful  to  her  pride. 
She  had  had  one  lesson,  and  she  had  failed  to  learn 
it;  had  failed  to  permit  that  sorry  experience  to 
serve  as  an  equipment  against  future  ones  of  a  like 
kind.  "I  must  be  a  very  stupid  woman,"  she  thought 
to  herself. 

She  made  up  her  mind  to  be  very  cold  and  dis- 
tant to  Giacomo  when  he  returned.  She  would  show 
him  that  she  was  indifferent.  She  threw  back  her 
head  a  little.  They  were  passing  along  the  broad 
white  road  that  leads  to  the  Borghese  Gardens  with 
its  twin  avenues  of  oleanders  now  in  their  full 
beauty.  Blossoms  of  shining  silver-whiteness,  of 
rose-pink,  of  deep  crimson,  made  blots  of  exquisite 
colour.  The  cabman  drove  slowly  as  if  he  guessed 
that  she  would  wish  to  let  her  eyes  rest  a  little  upon 
their  bright  loveliness. 

Suddenly  she  saw  three  figures  walking  towards 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  159 

her  on  the  path  at  the  side  of  the  road.  They  were 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Homer  Widness  and  Grace.  She  felt 
quite  sure  that  they  had  seen  her,  but  they  passed 
her  without  recognition,  with  eyes  fixed  as  if  by 
mutual  agreement  steadily  in  front  of  them. 

At  any  other  time  Gillian  would  not  have  given 
two  thoughts  to  the  encounter,  but  she  was  in  a 
mood  that  fears  affronts,  that  sees  in  unseeing  eyes 
a  subtle  covered  insult.  She  felt  quite  certain  that 
these  people  had  deliberately  cut  her.  For  the  mo- 
ment she  felt  hot  all  over.  Her  heart  beat  violently; 
the  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  What  did  it  mean? 
Then  pride  came  to  her  rescue.  Even  if  these 
Americans  did  cut  her,  what  did  it  signify?  Their 
friendship  was  nothing  to  her.  She  would  not  have 
cared  at  all,  she  told  herself,  if  only  Giacomo  had 
not  gone  away  three  days  ago  and  offered  no  sign. 

She  told  the  man  to  drive  back  to  the  Via  Sistina. 
Rome  was  hot,  dusty,  and  disagreeable,  she  thought; 
the  trams  in  the  Piazza  del  Popolo  annoyed  her  as 
she  passed  through  with  their  scraping  and  their 
bell-ringing.  All  the  beauty  had  died  out  of  the 
day.  .  .  .  She  was  glad  to  find  herself  back  again 
in  the  quiet  room.  She  took  off  her  hat  and  lay 
down  wearily  upon  the  sofa. 

The  old  problem  took  possession  anew  of  her 
thoughts.  Where  was  Giacomo?  Why  had  he 
stayed  away  so  long  without  writing  to  her?  Had 
he  so  soon  wearied  of  his  too  facile  conquest?  His 
mother  had  sent  for  him  and  he  had  gone  imme- 
diately. Why  had  she  sent  for  him?  And  why, 
why  had  the  Widness  family  cut  her  dead  this  eve- 
ning? Her  brain  was  tormented  ceaselessly  with 
these  questions. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

GIACOMO  read  the  two  letters  from  Lady  Lucy 
Ferrard  and  Mrs.  Homer  Widness.  His 
mother  was  present,  watching  him  as  he  read  and 
digested  their  sinister  contents.  Her  anger  had  sub- 
sided, and  she  was  prepared  to  act  justly  towards 
him  and  listen  to  his  defence.  His  face  had  grown 
very  pale,  and  little  beads  of  moisture  appeared  on 
his  brow,  just  below  the  rim  of  dark,  smoothly- 
brushed  hair. 

Then  he  laid  the  sheets  of  paper  down  side  by  side 
on  the  table  in  front  of  him.  He  did  not  speak,  but 
rose  and  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  distant 
port  and  the  sea  lying  fair  and  blue  beyond.  There 
was  a  long  pause. 

The  Marchesa  spoke  at  last. 

"Why  did  you  deceive  me  about  this  woman,  Gia- 
como?"  she  inquired.  "You  knew  that  a  marriage 
between  you  was  impossible." 

The  words  forced  the  truth  from  his  lips. 

"I — I  never  knew  it,"  he  said. 

His  voice  was  hoarse  and  strained.  He  was 
thinking  of  Gillian,  of  her  obstinate  silence  respect- 
ing the  past,  of  her  continual  evasions  whenever 
they  distantly  approached  the  subject,  of  her  vague 
promises  to  tell  him  all  about  it  one  of  these  days. 

The  Marchesa  unconsciously  breathed  a  sigh  of 
relief.  Of  course  he  was  not  even  now  free  from 
blame.  No  man  should  ask  a  woman  to  marry  him 
without  first  ascertaining  that  she  were  free  to  do 
so.  But  he  was  not  so  much  to  blame  as  she  had  at 
first  believed.  She  could  see  that  the  contents  of 
those  letters  had  been  a  surprise  to  him — a  bitter, 
unwelcome  surprise. 

160 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  161 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  deceived  you  too?"  said 
the  Marchesa. 

Giacomo  hardly  heard  her  words.  His  thoughts 
were  completely  occupied  with  Gillian.  If  what  the 
letters  said  were  true,  there  must  necessarily  be  an 
end  to  all  things  between  them.  Even  in  his  hour 
of  anguish  he  realised  that.  Despite  the  bewilder- 
ment, the  confusion  into  which  his  own  life  seemed 
to  have  been  suddenly  thrust,  he  could  at  least  grasp 
that  salient  fact.  Under  no  circumstances  could 
he  marry  a  woman  whose  husband  was  still  alive. 
Such  a  marriage  would  not  count;  it  would  not  be  a 
marriage,  and  he  was  not  the  man  to  submit  to  so- 
cial ostracism.  He  was  proud  and  ambitious  and  he 
had  an  arrogant  love  for  his  old  name. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  true?"  he  said  at  last,  turning 
towards  his  mother. 

His  face  looked  suddenly  older.  It  was  a  grave, 
stern  face  that  confronted  her;  all  its  youth  and 
gaiety  seemed  for  the  time  to  be  completely  oblit- 
erated. The  eyes  were  dull  and  sombre,  the  mouth 
was  grim. 

"I  do  not  think  you  can  reasonably  doubt  what 
Lady  Lucy  says.  She  has  known  Mrs.  Driscoll  since 
she  was  a  girl." 

Yes,  he  could  not  possibly  doubt  it,  besides,  his 
own  heart  assured  him  that  it  was  true.  He  had 
always  felt  the  presence  between  Gillian  and  him- 
self of  some  dividing  barrier.  Even  in  the  moments 
when  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  he 
had  been  acutely  aware  of  it.  He  had  longed  to 
break  down  that  wall  of  reserve  and  he  had  not 
dared.  Instinct  had  warned  him  that  he  might  find 
something  beyond  it  of  such  vital  consequence  that 
it  would  be  capable  of  destroying  their  happiness,  of 
separating  them  for  ever.  He  had  gone  on  in  a 
fool's  paradise;  all  through  their  engagement  he 


1 62  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

had  acted  the  part  of  a  coward.  By  a  thousand 
significant  signs  he  had  been  warned  that  something 
lay  behind  that  cold  reserve  of  hers. 

A  violent  revulsion  followed  upon  his  enlighten- 
ment. He  was  furious  with  himself  for  his  own 
crass  simplicity,  and  he  was  furious  with  Gillian 
because  she  had  so  easily  duped  him.  He  told  him- 
self that  his  love  for  her  was  dead.  It  had  been 
murdered  as  it  were  by  her  own  hand.  She  was 
not  the  woman  he  had  supposed  her  to  be.  There 
had  been  something  cold  and  deliberate  about  the 
way  she  had  deceived  him.  She  had  never  actually 
lied,  but  she  had  given  him  to  understand  something 
that  was  false.  Even  in  those  first  moments  he 
vowed  to  himself  that  he  had  ceased  to  love  her, 
and  that  he  would  never  see  her  again.  He  had 
permitted  himself  to  be  fooled  by  her. 

The  Marchesa  was  intensely  relieved  to  find  that 
her  son  had  been  absolutely  ignorant  of  the  truth, 
that  he  was  almost  as  shocked  when  he  heard  it  as 
she  herself  had  been.  Her  anger  against  him  died 
down.  Of  course  he  had  been  foolish,  almost  crimi- 
nally foolish.  But  then  he  was  very  young,  and 
Gillian  was  a  clever  experienced  woman,  with  suffi- 
cient beauty  and  charm  and  wealth  to  enslave  the 
fancy  of  a  highly  impressionable,  imaginative  young 
man.  It  was  the  woman  who  had  behaved  dishon- 
ourably, and  the  blame  was  almost  wholly  hers.  But 
she  would  be  punished  as  she  deserved  to  be. 

"You  had  better  not  return  to  Rome,"  said  his 
mother;  "you  always  said  that  you  intended  to  make 
a  voyage  to  Cyprus  this  summer.  I  advise  you  to 
get  leave  and  make  your  plans  to  start  at  once.  It 
would  be  mere  weakness  to  go  home — to  see  her 
again." 

"I  must  see  her  and  explain." 

*"I  don't  think  she  will  require  any  explanation," 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  163 

said  the  Marchesa  dryly;  "she  will  realise  by  your 
continued  absence  that  you  have  discovered  the 
truth.  I  dare  say  she  will  not  remain  in  Rome." 

"I  must  write  to  her  then,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
that  was  hard  as  well  as  weary. 

"I  should  prefer  it,"  said  his  mother,  "if  you 
would  leave  her  to  me.  I  will  make  things  quite 
clear  to  her.  It  will  be  better  for  you  not  to  ap- 
proach her  at  all.  She  deserves  no  consideration." 

Was  his  love  for  her  so  dead  that  he  had  not 
even  now  any  wish  to  remonstrate  against  this 
harsh  decision?  He  had  neither  the  will  nor  the 
words  to  defend  Gillian.  He  saw  that  his  mother 
was  right.  To  see  Gillian  again  would  be  a  mis- 
take, would  only  perhaps  revive  his  feeling  for  her. 
At  best  it  could  only  inflict  unnecessary  pain  upon 
them  both.  No  useful  results  could  emanate  from 
such  a  meeting.  Eventually  he  yielded  to  his  moth- 
er's suggestion,  and  promised  that  he  would  leave 
the  whole  affair  in  her  hands. 

"Be  kind  to  her,"  he  said;  "you  must  remember 
that  she  has  not  the  same  views  of  marriage  as  we 
have.  You  must  simply  tell  her  the  truth — that 
there  can  be  no  question  of  marriage  between  us. 
You  must  explain  why.  That  will  be  sufficient.  Do 
not  blame  her  nor  abuse  her  for  what  she  has  done." 

Was  it  really  Gillian  of  whom  he  was  speaking 
in  this  manner?  She  might  have  been  the  veriest 
stranger.  .  .  . 

And  after  all  was  she  not  a  stranger?  The  idol 
before  whom  he  had  so  devoutly  worshipped  was 
thrown  from  its  proud  eminence  and  lay  shattered 
and  crumbled  in  the  dust.  She  was  a  woman  who 
had  divorced  her  husband.  She  had  never  told  him 
that  she  was  not  free.  He  was  envisaging  a  new 
Gillian,  not  the  woman  he  had  loved.  A  suppressed 
sob  broke  from  him  at  the  thought.  Grief  and 


164  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

anger  waged  a  fierce  conflict  in  his  heart.  He  was 
conscious  of  but  one  wish — to  carry  out  his  moth- 
er's suggestion  and  put  the  seas  between  himself 
and  Mrs.  Driscoll.  He  would  not  return  to  Rome; 
he  would  run  no  risk  of  seeing  her.  He  would 
start  as  soon  as  possible.  His  things  could  be  sent 
to  him,  and  from  Brindisi  he  could  take  ship  to 
Corfu,  the  first  step  upon  his  eastward  way.  .  .  . 

If  the  Marchesa  intended  to  punish  Gillian  she 
succeeded  beyond  her  wildest  dreams.  She  was  not 
in  any  hurry  to  return  to  Rome  and  inform  her  of 
the  progress  of  events.  She  accompanied  Giacomo 
to  Brindisi  and  saw  him  start  upon  his  travels  with 
a  satisfaction  and  relief  she  could  hardly  conceal. 
She  had  never  really  expected  that  he  would  behave 
so  reasonably.  She  had  believed  that  he  would  cer- 
tainly seek  an  interview  with  Gillian  and  hear  the 
truth  from  her  own  lips.  But  through  all  the  con- 
fusion and  bewilderment  that  followed  upon  his 
abrupt  enlightenment  he  had  felt  a  definite  fear  of 
facing  that  final  scene.  He  shrank  from  hearing 
that  last  confirmation  of  the  truth,  that  admission 
of  her  own  duplicity.  He  did  not  want  to  see  Gil- 
lian with  the  veil  torn  from  her  face.  And  he  knew 
that  if  he  did  see  her,  he  would  have  to  speak  cer- 
tain truths  to  her,  bitter  truths  that  must  necessarily 
hurt  her.  He  could  only  go  to  her  with  his  love 
lying  dead  between  them — that  beautiful  murdered 
love  that  never  could  know  any  resurrection/  Even 
if  he  were  to  learn  that  she  had  suddenly  become 
free,  he  could  never  love  her  again.  He  would  only 
be  able  to  see  in  her  the  woman  who  had  deceived 
him,  not  the  woman  he  had  loved  so  deeply. 

For  a  space  of  about  ten  days  Gillian  waited  alone 
in  Rome  for  a  Giacomo  who  never  came.  No  tid- 
ings of  him  reached  her,  and  she  was  forced  to  face 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  165 

the  fact  that  his  absence  was  a  deliberate  one.  Nor 
was  her  own  conscience  quite  easy.  She  was  obliged, 
too,  to  envisage  the  possibility  that  he  had  by  some 
means  or  other  learned  the  truth  about  her.  She 
had  delayed  and  delayed  so  long,  and  now  perhaps 
some  one  had  stepped  in  and  told  him. 

She  was  pale  and  ill  with  anxiety  and  suspense. 
Some  days  she  hardly  left  her  bed,  but  lay  there 
weeping.  She  scarcely  ever  went  out  of  the  house; 
she  was  afraid  of  meeting  people.  Not  for  all  the 
world  could  she  risk  another  scene  such  as  that 
when  the  Widness  family  had  cut  her  on  the 
Pincio. 

She  had  tried  to  write  to  Giacomo,  but  in  this 
she  had  failed.  The  letter  would  not  be  written. 
It  was  something  before  which  her  very  pride  re- 
belled. At  the  end  of  the  tenth  day  she  began  to 
wonder  if  this  silence  were  to  be  eternally  her  por- 
tion, whether  he  had  indeed  left  her  with  no  inten- 
tion of  explaining  his  action.  In  the  evening,  how- 
ever, a  card  was  brought  to  her,  and  the  servant 
intimated  that  the  Marchesa  della  Meldola  desired 
to  see  her. 

Gillian  felt  her  limbs  tremble.  But  she  knew 
that  the  interview  must  be  faced  with  all  the  courage 
she  could  command.  On  the  whole  it  was  a  relief, 
perhaps,  to  deal  with  a  woman  rather  than  with 
Giacomo.  In  a  few  minutes  the  lift  brought  up  a 
shabby  indignant  figure. 

The  Marchesa  bowed  stiffly  as  she  entered  the 
room.  She  took  no  notice  of  the  chair  Gillian  prof- 
fered. She  began  her  attack  without  preliminary 
by  saying  abruptly,  "I  have  come  to  explain  my 
son's  absence.  He  left  yesterday  for  Corfu  and 
Cyprus.  He  thought  it  inadvisable  to  see  you  again. 
He  has  learnt  and  I  have  learnt  how  vou  have  de- 
ceived him  by  pretending  to  be  a  widow!" 


1 66  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"I  have  never  deceived  him,"  Gillian  said  proudly. 
"I  never  told  him  that  I  was  a  widow." 

After  all  she  had  never  uttered  a  single  word  that 
was  not  strictly  true.  And  if  Giacomo  had  drawn 
false  conclusions,  why  was  she  to  blame?  .  .  . 

"You  told  him  you  would  marry  him.  You  never 
told  him  that  you  were  not  free — that  you  had  a 
husband  living." 

"I  told  him  I  could  not  marry  him  until  October. 
But  I  shall  be  free  next  month,"  said  Gillian. 

The  Marchesa  stared  at  her  in  amazement. 
"Free?"  she  said. 

"I  have  divorced  my  husband,"  said  Gillian;  "the 
decree  will  be  made  absolute  in  July." 

"That  does  not  make  you  free  to  marry  my  son," 
said  the  Marchesa. 

The  words  fell  upon  Gillian's  brain  like  pelting 
hailstones. 

She  said  pitifully: 

"I  don't  understand.  Don't  divorced  people  re- 
marry here?" 

"We  have  no  divorce  in  Italy.  And  for  a  Cath- 
olic there  is  no  such  thing.  A  Catholic  cannot  marry 
a  divorced  woman  nor  one  who  has  a  husband 
living " 

"I  am  not  a  divorced  woman!"  Gillian  said, 
breathing  hard. 

"You  have,  however,  divorced  your  husband. 
You  cannot  marry  a  Catholic.  It  would  not  be  a 
marriage." 

"I— I  didn't  know,"  said  Gillian. 

"You  knew  enough,"  said  the  Marchesa,  "to  keep 
your  real  position  a  secret  from  my  son.  We  only 
learned  the  truth  through  a  friend.  It  shocked 
him  as  much  as  it  shocked  me." 

"I  thought  you  would  have  a  feeling  against  it," 
said  Gillian,  "I  knew  people  in  England  who  had. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  167 

My  aunt,  Lady  Pallant,  for  instance.  But  in  Eng- 
land divorced  people  do  re-marry.  I  only  didn  t 
know  Catholics  couldn't.  I  thought  it  was  simply 
a  matter  of  individual  opinion.  How  terrible,"  and 
now  she  looked  the  elder  woman  gravely  and 
straightly  in  the  face,  "how  terrible  your  religion 
must  be!" 

The  Marchesa  said  nothing.  She  returned  Gil- 
lian's look,  but  all  the  condemning  severity  had  gone 
out  of  her  glance.  She  felt  for  the  first  time  a  curi- 
ous sense  of  compassion  for  this  woman  who  was 
so  young,  so  lonely,  and  so  ignorant.  She  was  too 
charitable  not  to  try  and  make  excuses  for  her.  Only 
Giacomo — his  drawn  white  face  when  he  first 
learned  the  truth — still  haunted  her.  The  blow  had 
been  for  him  stupendous,  overwhelming. 

"Why  did  Giacomo  not  come  himself?"  said  Gil- 
lian at  last. 

"He  preferred  to  leave  everything  in  my  hands," 
she  answered.  "It  is  not  in  his  power  to  marry  you. 
I  have  brought  up  my  son  to  be  a  good  Catholic. 
If  he  were  to  go  through  any  form  of  marriage 
with  you,  legally  valid  perhaps  in  another  country, 
he  could  no  longer  practise  his  religion.  It  is  pos- 
sible that  you  did  not  know — did  not  understand 
these  things.  That  does  not  excuse  you,  however, 
for  having  kept  all  your  past  history  a  secret  from 
him.  I  may  tell  you  that  it  made  a  very  bad  im- 
pression upon  him." 

Gillian  was  struggling  to  keep  back  her  tears. 
Even  now  she  could  hardly  realise  that  it  was  all 
at  an  end — that  Giacomo  had  left  Italy  without 
wishing  or  trying  to  see  her  again.  She  felt  stunned 
at  the  drastic  punishment  which  was  being  meted 
out  to  her.  Surely  she  had  done  nothing  to  deserve 
treatment  so  cruel,  so  inhuman.  .  .  . 

"I  was  afraicUthatjf  you  knew  you  would  inter- 


168  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

fere  and  come  between  us,"  she  said  at  last  in  a 
low  voice.  "I  was  sure  of  his  love,  as  sure  as  I 
could  be  of  anything.  But  I  knew  that  you  had 
a  strong  influence  over  him.  I  was  afraid  .  .  . 
but  I  meant  to  tell  him.  You  may  believe  me  or 
not  as  you  like,  but  I  meant  to  tell  him  before  our 
marriage  took  place." 

"It  is  a  pity  you  did  not  tell  him  at  the  begin- 
ning," said  the  Marchesa,  "it  would  have  saved  a 
great  deal  of  misunderstanding.  He  would  have 
explained  to  you  at  once  the  impossibility  of  his 
marrying  you  under  the  circumstances.  You  would 
have  been  spared  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary  pain, 
and  so  would  my  son." 

Gillian  was  crying  quietly,  stifling  her  sobs  with 
an  heroic  effort  at  self-control.  She  felt  suddenly 
most  horribly  alone — more  alone  even  than  in  those 
first  days  of  Aylmer's  desertion.  She  felt  as  if  she 
were  travelling  across  a  wide  and  cold  sea  in  a  little 
rudderless  boat  that  had  no  other  occupant.  She 
was  at  the  mercy  of  overwhelming  waves  and 
storms.  There  was  no  help  anywhere.  She  was 
doubly  deserted  by  husband  and  lover.  The  pain 
in  her  heart  was  almost  unendurable. 

"I  suppose  you  are  not  staying  on  in  Rome?"  con- 
tinued   the    Marchesa.      "English    people    almost 
'always  find  it  very  trying  in  summer.     Very  few 
stay  as  late  as  June!" 

"I  haven't  made  any  plans,"  said  Gillian. 

"I  strongly  advise  you  not  to  remain.  There  has 
been  a  good  deal  of  gossip,  and  now  that  the  truth 
is  known  things  may  be  made  very  disagreeable  for 
you.  A  young  woman  in  your  position  cannot  be 
too  careful.  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  but  you 
would  be  better  at  home  with  your  friends." 

Gillian  made  no  reply;  it  is  possible  that  the 
words  conveyed  but  little  meaning  to  her.  She  was 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  169 

almost  paralysed  with  this  new  sense  of  desolation. 
All  her  fairy  castles  in  the  air  had  fallen  to  the 
ground  and  lay  in  broken  formless  heaps,  irreme- 
diably destroyed.  She  had  planned  a  beautiful  new 
life  that  should  have  no  tormenting  resemblance 
to  the  old.  And  now  she  was  enduring  once  more 
the  shamed  sense  of  a  door  being  slammed  in  her 
face.  How  could  she  ever  lift  up  her  head — look 
the  world  in  the  face  again?  .  .  . 

It  seemed  to  Gillian  as  if  this  second  blow  must 
thrust  her  permanently  into  the  dust.  How  could 
her  pride  survive  it?  Giacomo  had  left  her  with- 
out a  word.  He  had  made  no  sign  of  regret,  or 
sorrow  at  their  premature  parting.  Her  actions 
had  "made  a  bad  impression  upon  him."  That  was 
all  that  survived.  Humiliation  could  go  no  further. 
She  longed  for  the  Marchesa  to  go  away  that  she 
might  look  at  her  face  in  the  glass  and  see  if  it  bore 
any  outward  mark  of  the  burning  shame  that  was 
consuming  her,  body  and  soul.  .  .  . 

Nor  were  the  Marchesa's  views  matters  of  per- 
sonal prejudice  as  had  been  the  case  with  Lady  Pal- 
lant.  They  formed  part  of  the  system  of  irrefutable 
laws  which  the  Church  laid  down  for  the  guidance 
of  her  children.  One  had  no  choice  but  to  conform. 
It  was  a  matter  of  common  obedience.  There  was 
no  via  media  possible.  Giacomo  had  not  been  in 
any  way  coerced  by  his  mother ;  he  had  submitted  of 
his  own  accord,  and  had  trampled  whatever  re- 
mained of  his  love  for  her  under  foot,  as  a  shameful 
thing  to  be  spurned  and  destroyed. 

Something  lonely  and  desolate  in  her  aspect  sud- 
denly touched  the  Marchesa's  heart.  She  thought 
inconsequently  of  the  little  baby  Mrs.  Driscoll  had 
lost.  Whatever  her  fault  had  been,  her  married 
life  must  have  proved  singularly  and  disastrously 
unhappy.  And  had  she  not  said  that  it  had  never 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

been  her  intention  ultimately  to  deceive  Gia- 
como?  .  .  . 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  the  Marchesa.  "I  am 
sure  that  you  and  my  son  cared  for  each  other  very 
much."  She  paused,  looking  Gillian  in  the  face. 
Although  she  was  disfigured  by  her  tears,  she  still 
looked  beautiful  and  most  heartrendingly  sad.  "I 
wish  you  could  have  our  Holy  Faith,"  she  said, 
wondering  a  little  at  her  own  daring,  "it  would 
make  such  a  difference  to  you  now.  It  would  help 
you  to  bear  it  and  to  think  of  Giacomo  without 
bitterness.  You  would  see  then  that  he  could  not 
have  acted  in  any  other  way.  If  the  laws  of  the 
Church  are  severe  and  hard,  she  gives  you  the  means 
to  fortify  yourself  to  fulfil  them.  We  learn  her 
love  as  well  as  her  severity.  She  cannot  but  teach 
what  our  Divine  Lord  taught.  We  must  submit 
and  pray  for  strength,  and  pray  too  for  the  grace 
to  endure  which  He  is  always  ready  to  give.  You 
said  just  now  that  you  thought  our  religion  terrible. 
But  I  shall  always  pray  that  you  may  find  your  way 
to  that  door,  which  is  ever  open." 

"I  shall  never  do  that,"  said  Gillian,  choking 
back  a  hard  dry  sob.  "You  and  your  Church  are 
very  cruel."  She  seemed  to  hear  Aunt  Letty's  little 
chirping  voice  saying  once  more,  "Remember  Elsie 
Smith!"  It  was  a  warning  that  seemed  to  her  now 
utterly  unnecessary.  The  glimpse  she  had  had  of 
Catholic  teaching  had  been  quite  sufficient  to  deter 
her  from  any  wish  for  a  deeper  intimacy.  Rather 
it  had  excited  within  her  a  passionate  and  fierce 
hatred.  How  could  men  and  women  submit  them- 
selves to  such  harsh  and  arbitrary  laws — laws  which 
even  civil  legislation  did  not  attempt  to  impose?  "I 
shall  always  hate  the  Catholic  Church,"  she  said, 
and  for  the  first  time  there  was  anger  in  her  voice. 

"Some  day,  perhaps,"  said  the  Marchesa  softly, 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  171 

"you  will  not  hate  it  any  more."  She  looked  still 
pityingly  at  Gillian.  Strange  to  say,  she  no  longer 
held  a  bad  opinion  of  her.  She  was  utterly,  totally 
ignorant.  The  Marchesa  had  come  to  curse  and 
remained  to  bless.  She  went  up  to  her  and  took  her 
hand  in  that  shabbily-gloved  one  of  hers. 

"God  bless  you,  my  dear,"  she  said  gently.  "I 
shall  pray  for  you  always.  Perhaps  this  hard  and 
painful  lesson  has  been  given  you  for  a  definite  pur- 
pose. Do  not  fight  against  the  teaching  and  warn- 
ing it  holds." 

\Vhen  Gillian  looked  up  again  she  was  once  more 
alone.  The  little  black  figure  had  slipped  away. 

"I  wish  I  hadn't  cried,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I 
wish  I  hadn't  shown  her  that  I  was  hurt!  I  hated 
her  pitying  me  I" 

She  fought  now  with  the  sobs  that  threatened  to 
choke  her.  The  full  measure  of  her  grief  and  loss 
had  become  as  it  were  suddenly  apparent  to  her. 
Giacomo  had  really  gone  away;  he  had  sent  her  no 
message;  everything  was  utteily  at  an  end  between 
them.  He  was  a  Catholic,  and  for  that  reason  he 
could  not  marry  her.  She  was  not  in  his  eyes  free. 
And  she  had  loved  him;  she  loved  him  still.  That 
was  the  bitterest  thought  of  all.  She  had  set  forth 
so  lightly  upon  the  adventure,  and  Love  the  God 
had  conquered. 

She  had  been  right  in  her  first  suspicion  that  the 
forces  that  would  be  armed  against  her  would  be 
spiritual  ones,  divine  rather  than  human.  After- 
wards she  found  some  little  comfort  in  the  fact. 
The  Catholic  Church  was  more  powerful  than  she 
had  supposed,  it  demanded  and  exacted  implicit 
obedience.  Giacomo  had  not  been  faithless;  rather 
he  had  been  faithful  to  an  earlier  and  more  exacting 
claim.  Yet  she  wished  he  had  taken  away  the  sting 
a  little  by  coming  to  tell  her  himself — to  assure  her 


172  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

that  he  was  also  suffering — that  he  still  loved  her, 
although  she  could  never  be  his  wife.  She  felt  to- 
night very  young,  very  solitary,  very  much  alone. 

Still  with  a  faint  wish  to  please  Giacomo's  mother, 
as  well  as  to  remove  herself  from  an  unpleasant 
position,  she  made  plans  for  giving  up  her  apart- 
ment, and  for  leaving  Rome  as  soon  as  possible. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SHE  went  out  oft  the  following  morning  to  do  a 
little  necessary  shopping,  and  in  the  Piazza  di 
Spagna  on  her  way  to  Cook's  office  she  suddenly  en- 
countered two  ladies.  The  younger  one  ran  forward 
eagerly  with  outstretched  hand. 

"Why,  Jill— what  luck!"  You're  the  first  friend 
we've  met  since  we  came  to  Rome." 

The  rather  boisterous  but  sincere  welcome  brought 
a  tinge  of  colour  to  Mrs.  Driscoll's  pale  face.  So 
grateful  was  she  to  Amaryllis  Porter  that  she  could 
have  fallen  on  her  neck  and  kissed  her.  The  friendly 
words  were  as  balm  to  her  wounded  heart  and  soul. 

"Mother,"  called  Miss  Porter,  "here's  Jill  Dris- 
coll!" 

Mrs.  Porter  advanced,  heated  and  panting. 

"A  great  pleasure — my  dear  Jill,"  she  said,  gasp- 
ing between  each  word." 

They  moved  slowly  on  across  the  sunny  piazza 
where  the  brisk  red  trams  were  passing  to  and  fro. 

"Ammy  and  I  have  just  arrived  from  Sicily. 
We've  only  been  two  days  in  Rome  and  we've  had 
enough  of  it.  We're  on  our  way  now  to  buy  our 
tickets  at  Cook's,"  said  Mrs.  Porter. 

"We've  had  a  simply  topping  winter,"  put  in  her 
daughter,  seizing  Gillian  by  the  arm.  "But  Rome's 
really  a  bit  fuggy  at  this  time  of  year,  isn't  it?  We 
are  going  on  to  Assisi  to-morrow." 

An  idea  suddenly  occurred  to  Gillian. 

"I'm  just  going  to  leave  Rome  myself,"  she  said. 
"I  took  a  furnished  apartment  here  and  I'm  just 
giving  it  up." 

"Come  along  with  us  then  to  Assisi,"  said  Miss 
Porter  cheerfully,  "it  'ud  be  awful  fun.  Unless," 

173 


174  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

and  she  looked  doubtfully  at  Gillian,  "unless  you've 
made  other  plans." 

"No — I  haven't  made  any  plans.  I  was  wonder- 
ing where  I  should  go,"  said  Mrs.  Driscoll,  a  little 
sadly. 

"Oh,  you'd  much  better  come  with  us,  then,"  said 
Amaryllis  heartily;  "we  should  love  to  have  you, 
shouldn't  we,  mother?" 

"Of  course  we  should  be  delighted,"  said  Mrs. 
Porter;  "you  two  could  go  about  together  and  do 
as  much  sight-seeing  as  ever  you  like.  Ammy's  quite 
insatiable,  my  dear  Jill,  and  I  can't  keep  up  with 
her,  especially  in  the  heat!" 

Here  was  escape.  Few  offers  could  have  been 
more  welcome  to  Gillian  at  that  moment.  She  had 
known  the  Porters  years  before  in  Bath  and  had 
never  lost  sight  of  them.  She  had  always  been  glad 
to  see  them  in  London.  She  liked  the  breezy,  whole- 
some atmosphere  of  the  girl,  who  was  good-natured 
and  unselfish  to  the  last  degree. 

Amaryllis  Porter  had  a  brusque,  boyish  manner, 
and  looked  indeed  rather  like  an  overgrown  boy 
with  her  straight  active  limbs,  her  thin  muscular 
arms,  her  neat  brown  head  and  clear  blue  eyes. 
She  and  her  mother  had  never  cared  for  Aylmer 
Driscoll,  nor  for  those  denizens  of  Upper  Bohe- 
mia they  had  encountered  in  Gillian's  London  draw- 
ing-room. Amaryllis  knew  vaguely  that  Gillian  had 
"made  a  hash  of  things,"  and  certainly  she  looked 
sad  and  rather  ill.  But  it  was  not  the  moment 
to  ask  any  questions,  for  by  this  time  they  had  ar- 
rived at  Cook's,  and  Mrs.  Porter  was  already  mak- 
ing her  desires  known. 

Before  they  left  the  office  Gillian  had  also  ac- 
quired two  tickets  for  Assisi,  and  had  agreed  to 
accompany  the  Porters  thither  on  the  following  day. 

She  dined  with  them  that  night  at  their  hotel, 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  175 

in  some  trepidation  lest  she  should  encounter  any 
one  whom  she  knew.  But  one  glance  round  the 
room  sufficed  to  assure  her  that  all  those  present 
were  strangers  to  her.  It  was  a  relief  not  to  be  alone 
with  her  own  painful  thoughts. 

Mrs.  Porter  was  an  elderly  sedate  lady  who  was 
perennially  shocked  at  her  beloved  daughter 
"Ammy."  She  had  never  talked  slang  herself,  and 
her  daughter's  speech  sounded  not  only  vulgar  in 
her  ears,  but  it  was  also  entirely  incomprehensible. 
As  she  looked  at  Gillian  she  found  it  in  her  heart 
to  wish  that  Ammy  would  model  herself  upon  Mrs. 
Driscoll,  who  was  in  her  opinion  almost  perfect. 
Her  manners  were  so  quiet  and  ladylike,  her  voice 
was  unusually  low  and  soft. 

It  soon  transpired  that  Ammy  had  recently  be- 
come engaged  to  a  young  officer  whom  they  had  met 
in  Egypt.  At  dinner  she  talked  about  him  a  great 
deal,  and  Gillian  felt  without  any  malice  that  they 
must  be  exactly  suited  to  each  other. 

"He's  simply  a  topping  polo  player,"  said  Miss 
Porter;  "and  at  golf  he  beats  me  all  to  fits!"  It 
was  her  nearest  approach  to  enthusiasm,  and  sig- 
nified the  highest  praise  of  which  she  was  capable. 
"I  dare  say  we  shall  get  married  in  the  autumn — 
he  means  to  put  in  for  leave  then.  His  name? 
Oh,  didn't  I  tell  you?  It's  the  one  thing  I  don't 
like  about  him !  His  name  is  Hengist  Sprot.  Rot- 
ten, isn't  it?  At  first  I  wouldn't  have  him  on  that 
account.  As  if  it  mattered."  She  laughed  at  the 
remembrance.  "He  says  Amaryllis  Porter  is  awful 
too!" 

She  rattled  on  gaily,  while  her  mother  listened 
with  an  indulgent  and  Gillian  with  an  amused  smile. 

"Did  you  see  Lady  Lucy  Ferrard  in  Rome  this 
spring?"  inquired  Mrs.  Porter,  when  her  daughter's 
now  of  conversation  had  momentarily  ceased. 


176  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"Yes — I  dined  with  them  once.  They  have  gone, 
I  think,  to  Florence."  Gillian  spoke  in  a  strained, 
nervous  voice. 

"No  luck,  I  suppose?"  asked  Amaryllis. 

"Luck?"  repeated  Gillian. 

"With  that  young  Marchese — the  sister's  half- 
brother-in-law,  or  whatever  he  is?" 

"Dear  Ammy,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  gossip  so," 
said  Mrs.  Porter,  in  a  mildly  reproving  tone. 

"Well,  Mummy — you  know  what  Mrs.  Merton 
told  us.  She  said  he  trotted  about  after  Patience 
until  an  American  girl  with  lots  of  millions  came 
back  to  Rome,  and  then  he  went  after  her.  And 
then  a  young  widow — whose  name  Mrs.  Merton 
couldn't  remember — chipped  in,  and  boiled  the 
whole  show  and  cut  them  both  out!  No  wonder 
they've  gone  to  hide  their  diminished  heads  in  Flor- 
ence !  What  sucks  1"  And  she  leaned  back  in  her 
chair  and  laughed  loudly. 

Gillian's  face  changed  colour. 

"Rotten  luck,  wasn't  it?"  continued  Amaryllis. 
"If  it  hadn't  been  for  Hengist  I'd  have  tried  to  chip 
in  too !  I'd  have  given  him  a  nice  lesson  for  philan- 
dering like  that.  He  jolly  well  deserved  it!  Did 
you  ever  meet  him,  Jill?" 

"Oh,  yes — I  met  him  one  night  at  the  Ferrards," 
said  Gillian  listlessly. 

She  was  glad  when  Mrs.  Porter  changed  the  sub- 
ject by  asking  what  time  their  train  left  for  Assisi, 
and  they  continued  to  talk  of  their  journey  and  to 
make  plans  for  Gillian  to  meet  them  at  the  station. 

On  account  of  their  rather  early  start  she  excused 
herself  for  leaving  them  soon  after  dinner.  She 
was  desperately  afraid  that  Miss  Porter  might  again 
revert  to  the  subject  of  Giacomo.  She  was  begin- 
ning to  feel  ungratefully  that  a  little  of  Amaryllis's 
conversation  went  a  long  way.  And  there  was  her 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  177 

packing  to  be  done.  Her  new  maid,  an  Italian 
woman,  required  a  certain  amount  of  supervision. 
She  was  rather  glad  to  find  herself  at  last  alone  in 
her  own  room. 

She  went  first  to  her  locked  writing-case  and  took 
out  a  slim  packet  of  letters — all  that  Giacomo  had 
ever  written  to  her.  They  were  all  quite  short, 
mostly  making  appointments  for  their  next  meeting 
or  expedition.  The  oldest  was  only  about  two 
months  old.  From  the  formal  "Dear  Mrs.  Dris- 
coll,"  they  had  gradually  grown  in  affection  until 
the  last  ran  simply,  "Darling,  my  mother  has  tele- 
graphed for  me,  and  I  am  leaving  Rome  to-night. 
It  will  not  be  for  long,  we  shall  soon  meet  again,  for 
I  hope  to  be  back  to-morrow  evening.  Darling,  I 
love  you  always,  always.  GIACOMO." 

And  now  already  he  did  not  love  her  any 
more.  .  .  . 

With  a  little  sob  she  kissed  it  before  she  tore  it 
up.  Something  of  her  own  heart  seemed  to  lie  in 
those  shattered  fragments.  There  was  an  open  fire- 
place in  her  room  and  she  made  a  little  heap  of  the 
pieces  of  paper  and  knelt  down  to  burn  them,  watch- 
ing them  as  they  slowly  consumed  before  her  eyes. 
The  little  action  seemed  to  give  a  definite  finality 
to  the  episode  which  had  once  seemed  so  bright  and 
beautiful  and  romantic.  She  had  lost  Giacomo  for 
ever.  .  .  .  The  remembrance  of  his  mother's  words 
brought  a  flush  of  shame  to  her  face.  She  had  been 
so  ready  to  suppose  her  an  unscrupulous,  unprin- 
cipled adventuress. 

It  was  a  relief  to  feel  that  to-morrow  she  would 
leave  Rome.  The  sudden  advent  of  the  Porters  had 
been  quite  providential  and  had  relieved  her  of  the 
hard  task  of  making  plans.  Amaryllis,  with  her 
buoyant  spirits  and  unbridled  tongue,  could  hardly 
be  called  an  ideal  companion,  but  she  was  better 


178  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

than  none,  and  Gillian  at  this  juncture  was  begin- 
ning to  find  her  solitude  and  loneliness  press  heavily. 
She  would  stay  perhaps  some  time  at  Assisi  and 
then  go  on  to  the  mountains — it  was  all  one  to  her. 
She  would  drift  until  the  inclination  seized  her  to 
return  to  England.  Even  the  little  grey  house  in 
Brock  Street  had  once  or  twice  arisen  before  her 
mental  vision  as  a  desirable  shelter  and  refuge  from 
the  storms  of  life.  There,  at  least,  she  was  sure 
of  a  welcome;  there  at  least  she  belonged.  She 
thought  of  those  words,  "Darling,  I  love  you  always, 
always."  And  already  that  brief  madness  was  at 
an  end;  he  did  not  love  her  any  more.  She  felt 
as  if  she  had  been  struck  in  the  face  before  a  crowd 
of  people  who  callously  witnessed  her  shame.  .  .  . 

She  passed  a  feverish,  restless  night,  and  rose 
early,  much  earlier  than  was  necessary.  She  arrived 
at  the  station  before  the  Porters,  who,  however, 
soon  appeared  upon  the  scene.  Amaryllis  wore  the 
neatest  of  grey  suits,  short  in  the  skirt  and  well- 
fitting.  She  always  looked  her  best  in  severe  tailor- 
mades.  A  grey  hat  of  the  same  shade  fitted  closely 
upon  her  light  brown  hair.  She  wore  a  white  veil 
and  looked  as  fresh  as  a  rose. 

"Oh,  there  you  are,  Jill!"  she  said,  running  up 
to  her.  "My  word,  you  look  a  bit  off  colour!"  She 
gazed  at  her  with  real  concern. 

"Do  I?"  said  Gillian.  "I'm  sure  I  don't  know 
why  I  should." 

"I  suppose  Aylmer's  been  giving  you  a  rotten 
time?"  inquired  Miss  Porter. 

"I  suppose  he  has.  I  have  divorced  him,"  said 
Gillian  simply. 

"Yes — we  saw  it  in  the  paper  some  little  time  ago. 
I  always  said  Aylmer  was  a  bad  egg.  I'm  glad  you 
had  the  sense  to  get  rid  of  him.  I  don't  care  for 
poets  myself.  Give  me  soldiers!" 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  179 

She  ended  with  a  hearty  laugh. 

In  a  sense  it  was  a  relief  to  speak  thus  frankly 
to  Amaryllis  Porter,  for  she  took  the  normal  Eng- 
lish views  of  such  proceedings.  They  were  painful, 
of  course,  but  were  sometimes  highly  necessary  and 
were  referred  to  without  much  astonishment  or  dis- 
approval. Miss  Porter  had  summed  up  the  whole 
matter  by  saying  that  Aylmer  was  a  bad  egg  and 
that  Gillian  had  done  well  to  get  rid  of  him. 

"I  dare  say  you  will  get  married  again  some 
day,"  she  observed  calmly,  reflecting  as  she  spoke 
that  Gillian,  though  scarcely  older  than  herself,  was 
no  longer  in  her  first  fresh  loveliness  of  girlhood. 
She  had  a  worn,  rather  drawn  look  this  morning; 
there  were  shadows  round  her  eyes,  and  her  pretty 
mouth  had  a  sad  but  resolute  expression.  She  was 
very  thin,  and  there  was  something  pathetic  about 
her  that  seemed  to  appeal  inarticulately  for  pro- 
tection. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  marry,"  she 
assured  Miss  Porter,  "I'm  not  sure  one  isn't  happier 
alone!'; 

Their  conversation  was  abruptly  terminated  by 
Mrs.  Porter,  who  desired  her  daughter  to  see  to 
the  inevitable  registration  of  their  very  extensive 
luggage.  Soon  they  were  all  three  seated  in  the 
train  and  were  steaming  slowly  past  the  ugly  new 
suburbs  of  Rome.  To  her  surprise,  however,  Miss 
Porter  continued  their  conversation  as  if  it  had 
never  been  interrupted. 

"You  say  that  now — that  you  won't  marry  again, 
Jill — because  you  backed  a  wrong  'un!  But  just 
you  wait  a  bit.  One  forgets  things  very  quickly 
really.  I've  known  the  most  broken-hearted  widows 
marry  again.  And  you're  too  young  to  be  messing 
about  alone.  I  hope  your  money's  quite  safe?" 

She  felt  a  keen  interest  in  marriage-settlements, 


i8o  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

and  was   rather  proud  of  the   amount  she   could 
"bring  in"  to  her  own. 

"My  money  is  all  in  trust.  No  one  can  touch 
it,"  said  Gillian. 

"A  very  sensible  arrangement,"  remarked  Miss 
Porter. 

Her  breeziness  acted  almost  as  a  tonic  to  Gillian. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  if  this  frank  outlook  of  hers 
simplified  everything.  She  felt  as  if  Miss  Porter 
had  brought  with  her  a  wholesome  draught  of  Eng- 
lish air,  sweeping  away  those  complicated  cobwebs 
that  seemed  to  have  woven  their  dusky  web  around 
her,  holding  her  fast  with  invisible  threads.  At  any 
other  time  she  would  not  perhaps  have  appreciated 
the  prospect  of  making  this  journey  with  the  Por- 
ters, now  she  had  deliberately  embarked  upon  it, 
welcoming  it  as  an  escape  from  an  untenable  posi- 
tion. She  was  feeling  utterly  crushed  and  nerveless 
and  inclined  to  lean  upon  Amaryllis  Porter's  good- 
natured  strength.  Her  very  vulgarity  seemed  to 
possess  a  kind  of  vigorous,  attractive  sanity.  Life 
had  of  late  seemed  so  extraordinarily  difficult  and 
complicated  and  had  made  so  many  demands  upon 
her  exhausted  endurance  that  she  was  thankful  to 
have  this  simple  presence  with  her. 

The  bitterness  of  her  separation  from  Giacomo 
still  obsessed  her.  If  he  had  really  loved  her, 
would  he  have  cast  her  aside  with  such  callous  and 
deliberate  action,  such  unhesitating  cutting  of  the 
knot?  She  was  ashamed  to  think  that  she  loved 
him,  that  she  was  ready  with  forgiveness  even  now 
should  he  choose  to  come  and  demand  it.  ... 
She  had  never  felt  like  that  towards  Aylmer.  After 
the  first  shock  she  had  been  only  too  ready  to  harden 
her  heart  against  him  and  Deborah;  her  love  for 
them  had  changed  most  abruptly  into  hate.  But 
she  could  not  hate  Giacomo,  although  he  had  shamed 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  181 

her  to  the  very  dust.  His  tenderness  had  awakened 
within  her  a  new,  strange,  submissive  love.  He  had 
come  to  her  so  readily,  so  eagerly;  he  had  softened 
her  pride  and  healed  her  wounds.  Those  hours 
spent  at  the  Villa  Meldola  passed  continually  be- 
fore her  eyes.  She  saw  the  golden  sunset  light  on 
the  grey  plain  of  the  Campagna  and  on  the  polished 
silver  of  the  sea  that  lay  beyond  like  a  transparent 
shadow.  She  saw  the  great  cypresses  uplifting  their 
slender  dark  spires  to  the  sky.  She  was  walking 
with  Giacomo  again  in  the  cool  shadows  of  the 
twilight  ilex  woods.  There  was  one  point  at  which 
they  were  hidden  by  the  trees  from  any  curious 
observers  at  the  windows,  and  here  he  would  always 
stop  and  lift  her  face  to  his  and  kiss  her — and  kiss 
her.  .  .  .  Even  now  she  could  feel  something  of 
the  thrill  those  caresses  had  evoked;  even  now  her 
limbs  trembled  a  little  at  the  dear  remembrance  of 
it  all.  He  had  taught  her,  alas,  the  unwelcome 
lesson  that  she  was  still  capable  of  love,  that  her 
heart  had  not  grown  cold  and  frozen.  Till  then 
she  had  imagined  that  life  had  taken  from  her 
all  capacity  for  affection;  even  Paul's  love  had 
left  her  cold  and  uncaring.  But  Giacomo  had 
breathed  on  those  dead  ashes  of  love,  and  had  re- 
newed the  fire  in  them  and  made  them  glow.  It 
was  impossible  to  deceive  herself  on  this  point,  he 
had  taught  her  to  love  him,  and  then  he  had  delib- 
erately abandoned  her.  She  could  never  be  his  wife, 
so  he  had  resolved  never  to  see  her  again. 

As  Amaryllis  fell  into  silence  Gillian's  thoughts 
turned  to  Paul.  What  would  Paul  say  if  he  knew 
that  she  had  engaged  herself  to  another  man,  who 
in  his  turn  had  proved  faithless  to  her?  Would  his 
love  survive  this  hard  knowledge?  He  did  not  hold 
the  strict  and  harsh  views  she  had  found  in  Italy 
concerning  the  marriage  of  women  who  had 


182  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

divorced  their  husbands.  She  could  still  marry  Paul 
if  she  chose.  She  felt  that  his  love  for  her  would 
not  quickly  change.  Was  he  alone  faithful?  Ayl- 
mer  had  forsaken  her  for  another  woman;  Giacomo 
had  failed  her  on  account  of  religious  scruples. 
What  pretext  would  Paul  find  when  his  love  for  her 
grew  weak?  .  .  . 

Through  the  smiling  June  landscape  the  train 
travelled  with  a  leisurely  progress.  The  gay  emer- 
ald tints  of  the  acacias  and  the  young  corn  mingled 
with  the  soft  grey  velvet  of  the  olive  orchards. 
Fields  of  lupins  with  their  white,  fragrant  spires 
of  blossom  seemed  to  Gillian  to  resemble  thousands 
of  sleeping  butterflies.  The  vines  festooned  and 
garlanded  hung  from  tree  to  tree  like  giant  neck- 
laces. In  the  deep  furrows  a  line  of  scarlet  dis- 
closed the  thickly  growing  poppies.  Far  in  the  dis- 
tance the  high  mountains  still  showed  faint  streaks 
of  snow.  They  passed  ancient  cities,  brown  and 
bleached  with  age,  hanging  to  the  precipitous  crests 
of  the  hills  with  campanile  and  dome  outlined 
against  the  sky.  Rivers  jade-coloured  flowed  at  the 
foot  of  those  hills.  At  last  the  Umbrian  plain  came 
in  sight,  and  the  lovely  hill  cities  clinging  like  jewels 
to  the  slopes  shone  pearl-white  in  the  sunshine.  Lake 
Trasimeno  lay  outspread  like  a  magnificent  tur- 
quoise whose  shadows  were  painted  in  pure  deep 
violet.  Little  white  villages,  clustering  at  intervals 
on  the  lake-side,  seemed  to  be  lying  asleep  in  the 
sun. 

At  last  the  train  stopped  and  Gillian  found  her- 
self standing  on  the  platform  at  Assisi  with  the 
city  of  St.  Francis  above  her,  looking  down  from  its 
grim  eyrie  across  sloping  fields  filled  with  olives 
and  vines.  She  saw  the  two  fortress-like  churches 
that  guard  the  town,  one  at  each  end — the  monas- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  183 

teries  and  churches  of  the  two  Assisan  saints,  St. 
Francis  and  St.  Clare.  High  above  the  town, 
perched  on  a  grassy  slope,  stood  the  ancient  Rocca, 
its  grim  grey  shape  outlined  against  the  limpid  blue 
sky.  Eastward  Monte  Subasio  reared  its  barren, 
rugged  heights,  austere  as  are  all  the  Umbrian 
mountains,  as  if  to  furnish  a  sombre  setting  for  the 
delicate  jewel-like  cities  that  cling  to  their  crests 
and  slopes. 

As  Gillian  looked  up  she  said  to  herself:  "I  won- 
der what  Assisi  will  hold  for  me." 

She  remembered  then  with  a  sudden  stab  of  pain 
that  Rome  had  held  for  her  Giacomo  della  Meldola ; 
his  splendidly  handsome  face,  his  dark  eyes,  his 
words  of  love.  Rome  had  seen  the  beginning  and 
end  of  the  love  affair  that  had  seemed  at  first  to 
give  her  back  her  very  youth.  And  Assisi?  .  .  . 
Something  in  its  grey  austerity  almost  frightened 
her.  She  knew  vaguely  the  outlines  of  the  story  of 
St.  Francis.  Before  her  marriage  she  had  attended 
lectures  on  Italian  Art,  and  Giotto  and  Cimabue 
and  Lorenzetti  were  no  mere  names  to  her.  The 
subject  had  been  presented  to  her  from  the  artistic 
rather  than  from  the  religious  standpoint.  She  knew 
there  were  certain  things  to  be  seen  in  Assisi,  won- 
derful frescoes  in  beautiful  old  churches  renowned 
through  all  the  world;  she  knew,  too,  that  St.  Fran- 
cis had  been  the  chief  source  of  inspiration  in  that 
religious  and  artistic  revival. 

Miss  Porter  approached  her  on  the  platform, 
turning  away  for  the  moment  from  the  pile  of  lug- 
gage which  was  her  principal  care. 

"I  don't  suppose  any  one  has  heard  of  golf  here  I" 
she  said,  surveying  the  scene  with  good-humoured 
toleration.  "In  fact,  it  would  be  almost  sacrilegious 
to  mention  such  a  thing."  She  thrust  an  armful  of 
clubs  into  the  hands  of  a  surprised  Italian  facchino. 


1 84  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"And,  of  course,  no  one  would  dream  of  trying  to 
lay  out  links  on  the  side  of  a  wall  like  that."  She 
laughed,  and  Gillian  could  not  help  laughing  too. 

uAmmy  dear,"  said  her  mother  patiently,  "have 
you  got  the  luggage  ticket?" 

"Yes,"  said  Amaryllis,  producing  it.  "I  suppose 
the  hotel  people  will  see  to  it  all.  We're  going  up 
in  the  auto-bus." 

Soon  they  were  whirling  along  the  white,  steep, 
and  shadeless  road  that  twists  and  winds  up  to  the 
city  of  St.  Francis,  scattering  dogs  and  chickens  and 
children  in  their  rapid  and  dusty  progress. 

Amaryllis  looked  up  at  the  city  above  them. 

"Droll  little  place,"  she  remarked;  "I  hope  we 
shan't  be  bored  here.  I  very  soon  get  fed  up  with 
looking  at  musty  churches  and  peeling  frescoes.  And 
I  don't  suppose  there's  a  good  shop  in  the  place. 
I  am  going  straight  up  the  moment  we  arrive  to 
have  a  bath!" 


CHAPTER  XV 

GILLIAN  was  tired  that  evening  and  she  made  an 
excuse  for  leaving  the  Porters  early  and  re- 
tiring to  her  room.     She  wanted  desperately  to  be 
alone  and  she  felt  a  little  ungrateful  desire  to  get 
out  of  earshot  of  Amaryllis's  incessant  chatter. 

Beyond  her  window  there  was  a  little  terrace,  and 
she  went  out  there  to  look  at  the  wide,  immense, 
and  beautiful  view  which  lay  outspread  before  her. 
It  seemed  to  her  at  first  so  beautiful  that  it  almost 
took  her  breath  away.  The  mountains  lay  wrapped 
in  sombre  purple,  their  shapes  were  still  clearly  out- 
lined against  the  fading  crimson  of  the  sky,  but  the 
plain  was  wrapped  in  shadow,  broken  only  by  the 
slim  and  luminous  path  of  the  Tescio.  Here  and 
there  both  hills  and  valley  were  pierced  by  little 
clusters  of  lights,  marking  the  villages  of  Bastia, 
Bettona,  St.  Mary  of  the  Angels,  Rivo  Torto,  and 
many  more.  On  the  crest  of  the  opposite  hill  a 
crooked  ascending  row  of  lights  showed  the  hill- 
town  of  Rocca  di  Petrignamo.  And  there  to  the 
north-west,  perched  high  on  a  rocky  summit,  the 
bright  lights  of  Perugia  were  distinctly  visible  and 
seemed  in  their  brilliance  to  rival  the  stars  that  hung 
low  in  the  violet  sky  above  them.  Darkly  silhou- 
etted against  the  night  sky  she  could  see  quite  close 
to  her  the  beautiful  tower  of  the  Basilica  of  St. 
Francis,  and  the  massive  buildings  of  church  and 
monastery  seemed  to  melt  into  one  another  in  one 
vast  inky  blur.  A  bell  from  the  Campanile  rang 
out  the  hour.  Gillian  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  low 
balustrade  and  gazed  out  into  the  night  that  was 
now  dark,  but  despite  its  darkness  was  full  of  colour 
and  mystery.  From  the  quiet  little  garden  below 

185 


1 86  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

the  scent  of  dew-freshened  roses  stole  up  to  her. 
Fireflies  flitted  among  the  clumps  of  bamboos  and 
the  thick  bushes  of  oleander.  She  could  hear  the 
croaking  of  innumerable  frogs,  the  shrill,  piercing 
note  of  the  cicala.  Something  of  the  enchantment 
of  the  place  began  to  steal  over  her.  She  felt  the 
touch,  almost  caressing,  of  the  night  wind  that  stole 
past  like  a  silent  messenger. 

"I  think  Assisi  will  heal  me,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"at  least  it  cannot  give  me  fresh  wounds." 

After  the  tragic  experience  of  Rome  she  felt  that 
she  only  needed  tranquillity  and  eventless  days.  She 
shrank  from  people  and  society,  though  she  was  glad 
now  not  to  be  quite  alone.  She  would  go  for  excur- 
sions with  the  Porters,  and  the  rest  of  the  time  she 
would  explore  those  countless  treasures  the  city  pos- 
sessed, she  would  learn  to  know  by  heart  its  dim 
and  beautiful  churches.  And  when  she  was  tired 
she  could  lie  out  undisturbed  upon  her  sunny  terrace. 

For  the  first  week  she  spent  some  part  of  every 
day  in  doing  what  Miss  Matty  would  have  called 
"improving  her  mind."  She  read  books  about 
Assisi — there  were  a  great  many  in  the  hotel  library, 
some  bad,  some  good,  but  all  of  them  taught  her 
from  varying  points  of  view  something  of  the  life 
of  the  Little  Poor  Man  whose  footsteps  had  once 
trodden  the  steep  and  cobbled  streets  of  Assisi,  who 
had  been  born  there  in  a  humble  stable,  and  who 
had  returned  to  die  in  the  city  he  so  loved.  Gillian 
learned  of  his  gay  youth,  his  voluntary  poverty,  his 
self-abnegation,  his  consuming  zeal  for  his  Master, 
his  tireless  work,  his  many  miracles.  She  seemed 
to  see  him  treading  with  bare  feet  those  sunlit 
streets.  Insensibly  his  history  began  to  preoccupy 
her.  She  spent  more  and  more  of  her  time  in  the 
dim  Lower  Church  with  its  sombre  walls  decorated 
with  the  jewel-like  frescoes.  She  heard  the  friars 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  187 

chanting  their  office  and  the  monotonous  sound 
pleased  her,  it  enhanced  the  atmosphere  of  the 
place  and  intensified  its  total  unworldliness.  Tour- 
ists passed  carelessly  in  and  out,  staring  perfunc- 
torily at  the  frescoes  without  understanding  them, 
and  bestowing  a  casual  glance  at  the  ancient  glass 
of  the  windows.  In  those  hot  days  of  June  she 
found  the  grey  gloom  of  the  church  restful  and 
soothing,  full  of  peace  and  tranquillity.  When  she 
left  it  and  went  back  to  the  glare  of  the  piazza  the 
sunlight  seemed  for  the  moment  to  blind  her;  she 
could  hardly  distinguish  the  faces  of  the  beggars 
who  congregated  outside  the  doors. 

Part  of  the  charm  of  the  place  lay  in  its  power 
to  still  her  restlessness.  Here  she  missed  nothing 
of  the  summer  weather  she  had  known  in  Rome, 
nothing  of  the  radiant  heat,  the  aching  gold  of  the 
sunshine,  the  blueness  of  the  skies;  and  she  gained 
much,  almost  indeed  immeasurably,  in  the  delicate, 
fragrant  coolness  of  the  star-lit  nights  and  the  dew- 
drenched,  mist-wreathed  early  mornings.  She 
learned  to  love  the  haunting  mystery  of  those  Ital- 
ian dawns  creeping  over  the  mountains,  revealing 
almost  as  it  were  reluctantly  the  details  of  the  scene, 
gilding  a  tower  here,  a  dome  there,  drawing  away 
curtains  of  mist  to  disclose  the  silver  greyness  of 
the  olive-orchards,  the  brilliant  emerald  of  the  vines 
hung  with  pendent  bunches  of  little  green  grapes. 
From  her  terrace  she  could  see  the  climbing  roofs 
of  Assisi  in  all  their  delicate  blond  colouring,  grey, 
mauve  and  softest  pink  and  palest  gold,  ascending 
to  the  Rocca  like  pilgrims  mounting  that  happy  hill, 
as  one  writer  has  imaginatively  described  it.  Afar 
she  could  see  Spello  hanging  on  the  mountain  side 
like  a  pale  jewel.  In  those  summer  days  only  a  thin 
little  trickle  of  water  divided  the  pale  sands  of  the 
Tescio's  winding  bed. 


1 88  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

One  morning  she  rose  early  and  went  into  the 
church  before  the  tourists  had  come  to  disturb  that 
quiet  sanctuary.  There  was  a  light  in  the  crypt, 
and  she  went  down  the  flights  of  stairs  and  found  a 
priest  saying  Mass  at  the  altar  by  the  Saint's  tomb. 
She  knelt  down  in  a  dark  corner  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands.  Presently  a  bell  rang  sharply. 
She  looked  up  and  saw  the  Host  uplifted.  Gillian 
found  herself  trembling  a  little;  a  curious  emotion 
possessed  her.  Without  comprehending,  she  bowed 
her  head.  All  around  her  were  kneeling  peasants 
in  attitudes  of  devotion. 

She  went  back  to  the  hotel  when  Mass  was  ended 
and  entered  the  dining-room.  Amaryllis  was  sit- 
ting there  having  her  morning  coffee.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  light  cotton  coat  and  skirt  almost  dust- 
coloured  with  a  neat  hat  of  Panama  straw. 

"I  went  to  your  room  to  look  for  you,  Jill,"  she 
remarked,  "but  you  weren't  there.  Where  on  earth 
have  you  been  to  so  early?" 

"I've  been  in  church,"  said  Gillian  simply;  "it's 
lovely  there  in  the  early  morning.  I  heard  Mass 
in  the  crypt.  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Ama- 
ryllis?" 

"We're  making  an  early  start  for  the  Carceri. 
Mother's  going  on  a  mule,  but  I  shall  walk.  It 
takes  about  an  hour  and  a  half,  and  it's  a  steep 
climb.  Do  you  think  you  can  manage  it,  Jill?" 
She  looked  doubtfully  at  Gillian's  pale  face  and 
slight,  delicate  form. 

T'Oh,  I  think  I  can,"  said  Gillian;  "I'll  go  and 
get  ready.  What  time  shall  you  start?" 

"About  a  quarter  to  nine  if  I  can  get  Mum  up 
to  the  scratch,"  replied  Amaryllis. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning.  The  mist  had  not 
yet  quite  lifted  down  in  the  plain,  but  the  surround- 
ing hills  were  all  clearly  defined.  The  Umbrian 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  189 

landscape,  bleak  and  austere,  was  softened  by  all 
the  vivid  summer  green  of  vine  and  wheat.  The 
mountains  were  painted  in  soft  tones  of  grey  and 
pale  violet.  All  along  the  sides  of  the  white  steep 
road  blue  thistles  and  scabious  of  various  hues, 
mauve,  white,  and  pink,  thrust  up  their  blossoms 
above  the  coarse  yellowing  grass.  Purple  campa- 
nulas hung  out  their  bells,  tall  mulleins  like  pale 
candles  lifted  erect  spires;  wild  parsley,  brambles, 
dog-roses  and  honeysuckle  made  a  feasting  place  for 
the  bees  and  a  garden  for  the  butterflies  that  wan- 
dered there  in  drowsy  inconsequent  flight  and  settled 
sleepily  upon  the  flowers;  they  looked  like  fragile 
silken-winged  blossoms  seeking  their  earth-sisters. 
Clouded-yellows,  blues  of  every  shade,  brown  walls 
and  heaths  and  coppers,  fritillaries  and  gorgeously 
painted  Red  Admirals  and  Peacocks — marvellous 
creatures  too  delicate  for  such  clumsy  school-boy 
nomenclature — floated  past  in  the  sunshine.  Green 
lizards  darted  out  among  the  red  rocks.  Olive 
trees  covered  the  slopes  like  wreathing  grey  clouds. 

At  a  stony  bend  in  the  road  some  trouble  was 
experienced  with  Mrs.  Porter's  mule,  and  in  spite 
of  the  vociferous  assurances  of  her  guide  that  all 
was  well,  she  descended  precipitately  from  her 
mount,  and  excitedly  began  to  demonstrate  her  fear 
of  proceeding  any  further  under  such  perilous  con- 
ditions. 

"Nonsense,  Mum!"  said  Miss  Porter  good- 
humouredly,  "the  beast's  as  quiet  as  a  lamb.  Those 
donkeys  in  Egypt  were  much  more  dangerous,  and 
you  never  turned  a  hair.  He  only  shied  at  those 
children — tiresome  little  nuisances !  We  can't  pos- 
sibly stop  here — we  shall  be  broiled  in  this  hot  sun." 

Mrs.  Porter  sat  down  on  the  nearest  bank  and 
began  to  fan  herself. 

"Ammy  dear,"  she  said,  "it's  no  use  your  trying 


190  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

to  persuade  me  to  get  on  that  brute's  back  again! 
I  can  see  he's  as  vicious  as  ever  he  can  be — you've 
only  got  to  look  at  his  face !  I'd  rather  walk  every 
inch  of  the  way  than  get  on  his  back  again." 

Miss  Porter  went  boldly  up  to  the  mule  and  pro- 
ceeded to  pat  and  stroke  him  as  if  to  demonstrate 
his  docility. 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  he's  all  right  like  that,"  said  her 
mother,  "but  he  did  kick  just  now — I  was  as  nearly 
as  possible  over  the  precipice.  I'm  surprised, 
Ammy,  that  you  should  want  your  mother  to  run 
into  such  awful  danger.  The  donkeys  in  Egypt 
were  bad  enough,  but  not  one  of  them  ever  kicked 
like  that!  Besides  there  were  no  precipices  there!" 

Her  large,  plump,  heated  face  wore  an  agitated, 
scared  expression. 

"Nonsense,  Mum,"  repeated  Amaryllis,  with  an 
amused  smile.  "He  is  as  quiet  as  a  mouse  really. 
Wouldn't  hurt  a  fly,  would  he,  then?" 

The  man  stood  by  smiling.  He  could  guess  pretty 
well  what  was  passing,  although  his  English  con- 
sisted of  only  two  expressions  which  he  had  always 
found  sufficient  for  all  practical  purposes,  "All 
right,"  and  "Damn!"  These  he  had  learned  from 
the  lips  of  the  innumerable  British  tourists  whom  he 
had  conducted  to  the  fastnesses  of  the  Carceri. 

Quite  ten  minutes  had  now  elapsed  since  this 
exhibition  of  peevishness  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Porter, 
and  both  Amaryllis  and  Gillian  were  beginning  to 
despair  of  continuing  their  journey  when  suddenly 
round  the  corner  of  the  hill  there  appeared  the  figure 
of  a  man — a  tall  figure  in  grey  flannel  suit  of  very 
English  cut.  He  came  down  the  road  and  halted 
before  the  little  group.  Divining  that  something 
was  amiss,  he  lifted  his  straw  hat,  and  addressing 
Mrs.  Porter  as  the  oldest  and  most  responsible 
member  of  the  party,  he  said: 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  191 

"Can  I  be  of  any  service  to  you,  madam?'* 

He  was  fair  with  brown  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  'a 
very  charming  smile.  Gillian  liked  his  voice. 

'  My  daughter  is  trying  to  persuade  me  to  mount 
that  mule  again,"  explained  Mrs.  Porter  in  art 
aggrieved  tone,  "but  I  utterly  refuse.  He  is  a  very 
vicious  beast,  and  just  now  he  kicked  and  very 
nearly  threw  me.  I  should  have  gone  straight  over 
the  precipice.  I'd  rather  walk  every  inch  of  the 
way  than  get  on  his  back  again."  She  repeated  the 
words  with  greater  obstinacy  and  determination. 

Amaryllis  smiled  upon  the  stranger,  and  shrugged 
her  shoulders  with  a  gesture  that  conveyed  to  him 
her  own  helplessness  to  deal  with  an  obdurate  par- 
ent. He  was  decidedly  good-looking  in  that  well- 
set-up,  active  British  way  of  his;  it  was  evidently 
his  intention  to  be  friendly  and  helpful.  She  won- 
dered why  his  eyes  strayed  always  back  to  Gillian, 
who  stood  there  passively  without  saying  a  word. 

"Oh,  come  now,"  he  said,  "I'm  sure  the  mule 
isn't  as  bad  as  all  that."  He  spoke  some  words  in 
fluent  Italian  to  the  man,  who  once  more  broke  forth 
into  voluble  explanations  accompanied  by  gesticula- 
tions that  seemed  to  include  Assisi  and  Spello  and  the 
whole  of  the  Umbrian  valley.  Gillian,  whose  knowl- 
edge of  Italian  was  still  slight,  had  managed  to 
gather  that  the  mule  was  unaccustomed  to  having 
such  a  heavy  weight  as  Mrs.  Porter  upon  his  back, 
and  had  signified  his  disapproval  by  a  protest  that 
took  the  form  of  kicking.  She  smiled  as  she  realised 
this,  and  her  eye  caught  that  of  the  stranger,  who 
suddenly  perceived  that  she  had  grasped  what  the 
man  was  saying. 

Turning  to  Mrs.  Porter,  he  said,  "I'm  really  going 
up  to  the  Carceri  myself  this  morning,  and  if  you 
will  allow  me  to  accompany  you,  I'll  promise  to 
keep  the  mule  in  order.  You  shan't  come  to  grief. 


192  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

It  is  a  longish  walk,  and  it'll  be  pretty  hot  before 
we  get  there ;  I  really  don't  think  you  could  manage 
it  on  foot.  And  having  come  so  far,  it  seems  a  pity 
to  turn  backl" 

"I  simply  can't,"  said  Mrs.  Porter.  "Ammy, 
tell  him  I  can't." 

She  closed  her  eyes. 

"But,  Mummy — if  he's  there  to  help  us  I"  said 
Amaryllis  persuasively,  and  with  commendable  pa- 
tience. 

"He  can't  possibly  prevent  the  mule  from  kicking, 
Ammy." 

The  tone  was,  however,  less  decided,  and  Mrs. 
Porter,  rising  from  the  bank,  stood  majestically  by 
her  daughter's  side. 

"I'll  walk  home,"  she  said,  "and  you  two  girls 
can  go  on  alone  with  Mr. ."  She  glanced  in- 
terrogatively at  the  stranger,  who  replied  without 
hesitation: 

"Ian  Frazer." 

"It  would  be  very  kind  of  you  to  go  with  them," 
Mr.  Frazer,"  added  Mrs.  Porter. 

"Do  let  me  entreat  you  not  to  give  up  the  expe- 
dition," he  said;  "why,  you  are  more  than  half-way 
there — it  would  be  a  thousand  pities  to  go  back 
now.  I'll  answer  for  the  mule!" 

He  went  up  to  the  suspected  animal  and  took 
hold  of  the  bridle,  as  if  to  encourage  Mrs.  Porter 
to  trust  herself  once  more  to  its  mercies.  His  eyes 
met  Ammy's.  He  surveyed  her  bright,  boyish  face 
with  its  frank  eyes  and  curly  hair,  then  almost  in- 
voluntarily he  glanced  back  at  Gillian. 

"I'll  walk  between  you  and  the  edge  of  the  road," 
he  went  on;  "even  if  the  mule  does  kick  again,  which 
I  don't  think  he  will,  you  won't  be  in  any  danger." 

Mrs.  Porter  shuddered  a  little,  then  came  for- 
ward uneasily.  She  gazed  up  at  the  steep  white 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  193 

road,  stony,  precipitous;  the  glare  from  it  hurt  her 
eyes. 

"Very  well,"  she  agreed  reluctantly,  and  after 
some  little  further  delay  and  difficulty  she  was  hauled 
once  more  upon  his  back,  and  the  mule  proceeded 
without  remonstrance,  an  apparently  docile  and  re- 
pentant animal. 

They  climbed  the  hill,  Mr.  Frazer  leading  the 
mule  by  the  bridle  and  interposing  his  tall  stalwart 
figure  between  Mrs.  Porter  and  the  dreaded  preci- 
pice. 

Gillian  and  Amaryllis  followed  behind. 

"He  reminds  me,"  said  Miss  Porter  with  a  little 
giggle,  "of  Hengist.  He's  got  the  cut  of  a  soldier, 
but  he's  better-looking  than  Hengist  really.  And 
what  nice  blue  eyes — did  you  notice  them,  Jill?" 

Gillian  offered  some  commonplace  reply.  The 
little  scene  had  amused  her,  and  the  young  man  had 
certainly  directed  more  than  one  glance  of  humour- 
ous sympathy  towards  her.  They  pursued  their  way 
almost  in  silence,  and  Gillian  was  getting  tired  long 
before  the  grey  buildings  of  the  famous  hermitage 
clinging  to  that  steep  ravine  came  into  view.  She 
was  glad  to  rest  on  arrival  in  the  quiet  little  chapel. 
Mrs.  Porter,  also  somewhat  exhausted,  kept  her 
company,  while  Amaryllis  and  Mr.  Frazer  dis- 
appeared. 

"I  can't  think  how  it  is,  Jill,"  said  Mrs.  Porter 
in  the  sibilant  whisper  of  one  who  addresses  another 
in  church,  "but  wherever  Ammy  goes  young  men 
seem  to  spring  out  of  the  ground!  I  assure  you  it 
has  often  made  me  very  anxious,  and  I  shall  be  glad 
when  she  is  safely  married  to  Hengist,  and  then 
I  shan't  be  there  to  see  them  spring  and  feel  wor- 
ried about  itl  Still,  he  was  really  very  civil  and 
helpful,  this  Mr.  Frazer,  wasn't  he?  And  not  at 
all  afraid  of  the  mule.  In  fact,  I  could  see  that  the 


194  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

mule  was  a  little  afraid  of  him — he  never  tried  on 
a  single  one  of  his  tricks  I" 

Gillian  paid  little  attention  to  the  rather  pur- 
poseless and  inconsequent  conversation  of  Mrs.  Por- 
ter. The  atmosphere  of  the  place  was  slowly  pos- 
sessing her;  she  felt  almost  as  if  in  some  indefinable 
way  it  were  claiming  her.  This  remote  hermitage 
perched  high  on  the  rocky  slopes  of  Monte  Subasio 
was  informed  with  a  spirit  that  was  new  and  strange 
to  her.  She  did  not  all  at  once  connect  it  with  that 
Church  which,  as  she  had  told  the  Marchesa  with 
passion,  she  had  learnt  to  hate — the  Church  that 
had  separated  her  so  arbitrarily  from  Giacomo.  She 
knew  only  that  the  Carceri  was  a  place  where  men 
were  content  to  live,  perhaps  to  die,  bound  by  strict 
rule,  fulfilling  hard,  monotonous,  and  often  distaste- 
ful tasks,  day  after  day,  year  in,  year  out,  for  the 
love  of  God.  They  had  laid  aside  all  prosperity 
and  material  comfort  and  fortune;  their  life  was 
bounded  by  these  narrow  walls  so  that  they  might 
pray  the  better,  serve  God  the  better,  living  very 
close  to  Him  in  their  self-imposed  solitude.  Only 
the  absolute  necessities  of  life  were  theirs,  scant 
food,  rough  lodging,  coarse  attire.  What  did  they 
receive  in  exchange? 

She  asked  herself  that  question  now  as  she  knelt 
in  the  little  rude  chapel  with  her  face  hidden  in 
her  hands.  What  had  it  to  offer — this  service  of 
which  she  was  still  so  ignorant?  More  self-sacri- 
fice, more  renunciation,  undertaken  joyfully,  nay, 
eagerly — that  was  apparent  even  to  her.  These 
men  had  entered  a  jealous  service  that  admitted  no 
rival.  In  her  ears  she  could  hear  the  Marchesa's 
words,  sounding  stern  but  kind:  "I  shall  pray 
always  that  you  may  find  your  way  to  that  aoor, 
which  is  ever  open."  Could  it  be  that  love  and 
tenderness  awaited  her  where  she  had  believed  only 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  195 

to  find  harsher  laws?  The  answer  seemed  to  lie 
in  the  figure  of  Christ  hanging  upon  the  Cross, 
scarred,  bleeding,  suffering. 

Paul  and  Giacomo  passed  before  her  eyes;  they 
had  loved  her,  they  had  offered  her  happiness.  Even 
now  she  could  still  believe  that  Paul  Pallant  was 
obstinately  waiting  for  her  return.  .  .  . 

Figures  from  the  past  seemed  to  emerge  from 
their  shadows  in  a  kind  of  dim  procession.  She 
saw  her  aunts  and  Aylmer — how  happy  she  had 
been  to  feel  that  she  need  never  return  to  the  appall- 
ing and  narrow  dullness  of  Brock  Street! — Lady 
Pallant  and  her  son  and  daughter,  Deborah  Ven- 
ning  with  her  cold  green  eyes,  then  lastly,  Giacomo 
and  his  mother.  In  all  their  lives  she  had  played 
a  part,  and  now  she  was  outside  in  the  cold, 
estranged  as  it  were  from  all  their  interests.  She 
was  kneeling  here  in  the  worn,  dark  chapel  trying 
to  pray,  with  her  face  hidden  and  the  tears  drop- 
ping through  her  fingers.  How  terrible  life  was 
...  so  long  ...  so  very  lonely.  Twice  she  had 
seen  happiness  snatched  from  her;  twice  she  had 
been  repudiated,  flung  back  into  the  dust.  She  felt 
soiled  as  if  she  had  been  really  wicked.  Yet  other 
women  had  acted  as  she  had  done  and  no  one  had 
blamed  them.  .  .  . 

She  did  not  notice  that  Mrs.  Porter  had  quietly 
withdrawn.  She  was  feeling  rested  and  had  gone 
in  anxious  search  of  her  daughter.  When  Gillian 
went  outside  into  the  little  courtyard  she  found 
them  all  assembled  there  talking  to  a  lay  brother 
by  the  well.  Amaryllis  was  quaffing  a  glass  of  the 
ice-cold  water.  She  held  out  the  glass  to  her.  "Do 
have  some,  Jill,"  she  said,  "it's  simply  topping!" 

Gillian  was  rather  glad  of  the  refreshment;  she 
accepted  a  biscuit  too  from  Mrs.  Porter's  bag. 

"Do  take  Mrs.  Driscoll  round  the  place,"  said 


196  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

Amaryllis  to  Mr.  Frazer,  "she  hasn't  seen  it  yet. 
And  I've  knocked  my  head  against  those  low  doors 
enough  for  one  day!" 

Mrs.  Driscoll?  Ian  Frazer  glanced  at  Gillian's 
ungloved  hand  and  noticed  her  wedding-ring  for  the 
first  time. 

"Please  let  me  have  that  pleasure,"  he  said;  "I 
know  every  inch  of  the  place.  I'm  often  here," 
he  added  as  they  moved  away,  "you  see,  I'm  a 
Franciscan  tertiary." 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  frightfully  ignorant  about  these 
things,"  said  Gillian.  "Does  it  mean  you  are  a 
Catholic?" 

"Oh,  yes,  that  comes  first.  And  with  me  the 
other  seemed  to  follow  as  a  natural  course." 

"Do  you  live  up  here?" 

"Yes — not  far  from  where  I  met  you  this  morn- 
ing. I've  turned  an  old  farm-house  into  quite  a 
respectable  villa.  It  does  very  well  for  me.  I'm 
a  writer." 

Gillian  was  scarcely  listening.  "Did  you  become 
a  Catholic,  Mr.  Frazer?"  she  asked. 

His  face  showed  a  little  surprise  at  the  question. 

"Yes — I'm  a  convert,"  he  answered. 

"Is  it  very  difficult?" 

"I  didn't  find  it  so.  I  wanted  to  be  one  most 
awfully  when  I  was  still  at  Eton."  His  voice  grew 
suddenly  grave.  "They've  cut  me  off  with  a  penny 
in  consequence.  Or,  rather — without  the  penny  I" 
And  now  he  smiled  with  an  enchanting  radiance  in 
his  eyes. 

"And  don't  you  mind  that  frightfully?"  Gillian 
asked.  She  found  it  easy  to  talk  to  this  stranger 
with  his  sympathetic  eyes  and  voice. 

"Being  poor?  Not  a  little  bit!  I've  enough  to 
eat,  I've  the  loveliest  view  to  look  at  all  day  long. 
I  have  peace  and  tranquillity,  and  luckily  lots  of 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  197 

work  to  do.  And  I'm  in  love  with  my  own  little 
hermitage.  You  must  come  and  see  it  if  you  are 
staying  on  in  Assisi.  Persuade  Miss  Porter  to 
come  up  with  you  one  day."  He  dropped  his  voice. 
"I'd  rather  meet  her  there  than  here.  I'd  rather 
meet  her  in  a  foursome  at  golf  than  anywhere! 
But  here — she  doesn't  seem  to  fit  in.  She  made  fun 
of  everything.  She  simply  screamed  with  laughter 
at  the  beautiful  old  stories  I  You,"  he  looked  at 
her  quietly,  "you  fit  in  quite  beautifully,  Mrs.  Dris- 
coll." 

A  faint  wave  of  colour  mounted  to  Gillianl's 
brow.  They  were  standing  on  the  bridge  that  hangs 
across  the  gorge  whose  torrent  was  once  miracu- 
lously dried.  Ilex  trees  cast  a  dark  shadow  across 
the  place,  shielding  them  from  the  hot  sunlight. 
She  looked  up  at  him  wondering. 

"Do  I?"  she  said.  "I  don't  feel  as  if  I  fitted  in 
at  all.  It's  so  strange  and  new  and  overpowering. 
I  never  felt  like  this  before  even  in  Rome." 

When  she  looked  up  at  him  like  that  it  seemed  to 
him  that  her  eyes  held  a  profound  sadness,  as  if 
they  had  gazed  upon  unendurable  griefs. 

"Ah,"  he  said  sympathetically,  "many  people  feel 
like  that  upon  coming  to  Assisi  for  the  first  time. 
It's  wonderful  how  the  Saint's  aura — if  I  may  use 
such  an  expression — hangs  still  over  the  place.  I 
hope  you  are  going  to  stay  here  for  a  bit?" 

"I  haven't  made  any  plans,"  said  Gillian  quietly. 
"I  should  be  glad,"  she  added  timidly,  "if  you  would 
come  one  day  and  see  me." 

"I  don't  often  come  down  to  Assisi,"  he  acknowl- 
edged frankly,  "but  then  I  don't  often  have  such 
an  inducement." 

He  showed  her  then  the  tiny  cells  that  were  still 
visible,  especially  that  one  carved  out  of  the  rock 


198  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

where  St.  Francis  had  slept  with  a  log  of  wood  for 
his  only  pillow.  The  doorways  were  so  low  that 
she  had  to  bend  her  head  to  pass  beneath  them.  But 
each  cupboard-like  cell  or  chapel  possessed  some 
memory,  some  relic  of  the  Saint  who  had  sojourned 
in  this  abode  that  was  as  remote  and  solitary  as  an 
eagle's  eyrie. 

When  they  had  explored  every  permissible  nook 
and  cranny  they  returned  to  Mrs.  Porter  and  Ama- 
ryllis, and  rested  a  little  till  it  was  time  to  start 
once  more  upon  their  homeward  way.  The  Porters 
had  been  partaking  of  some  refreshment  in  the 
shape  of  sandwiches  which  they  had  brought  with 
them,  and  insisted  upon  Gillian's  doing  likewise.  She 
ate  one  to  please  them,  but  she  did  not  feel  hungry. 
They  started  off,  and  Mrs.  Porter  with  considerable 
obstinacy  insisted  upon  walking  the  first  part  of  the 
way  home.  She  invited  Mr.  Frazer  to  accompany 
them  back  to  luncheon. 

Before  accepting  he  glanced  at  Gillian.  But  in 
her  tranquil,  composed  face  there  was  nothing  to 
suggest  encouragement  or  the  reverse.  Amaryllis 
was,  however,  frankly  and  eagerly  persuasive.  He 
therefore  smilingly  accepted. 

He  walked  on  ahead  with  Miss  Porter,  their  two 
tall,  well-set-up  British  figures  looking  singularly 
striking  and  well-matched. 

"He  seems  really  quite  taken  with  Ammy,"  mur- 
mured Mrs.  Porter.  "Did  you  notice  how  he  jumped 
at  the  idea  of  coming  back  with  us?" 

"I'm  not  surprised.  Ammy's  looking  charming," 
replied  Gillian  conventionally.  But  the  little  speech 
delighted  Ammy's  mother. 

"Yes — isn't  she?"  It's  wonderful  how  a  success- 
ful love  affair  improves  a  girl's  looks.  Still,  I  do 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  199 

hope  she  will  tell  this  Mr.  Frazer  that  she  is  en- 
gaged!" 

Ammy  was  not  reticent  and  loved  to  proclaim  her 
engagement  from  the  house-tops,  so  Gillian  thought 
it  was  more  than  probable  that  she  had  already 
confided  it  to  Mr.  Frazer.  But  she  did  not  say  so 
aloud. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DURING  the  next  few  days  it  was  borne  in  upon 
Mrs.  Porter  that  she  had  made  an  initial  mis- 
take with  regard  to  Ian  Frazer.    It  was  not  Ammy 
who  offered  that  magnet  for  his  frequent  descents 
to  the  town;  it  was  Mrs.  Driscoll. 

"That  young  man,"  she  announced  to  her  daugh- 
ter one  day  about  a  week  after  the  expedition  to 
the  Carceri,  "is  falling  in  love  with  Gillian." 

Amaryllis  gave  one  of  her  hearty  bursts  of 
laughter. 

"You're  wrong  there,  Mum  I  Mr.  Frazer  is  a 
Catholic,  and  he  couldn't  marry  Jill  if  he  wanted 
to!" 

"Well,  they've  gone  out  together.  I  saw  them 
start." 

"Oh,  there's  nothing  in  that,"  replied  Amaryllis, 
who  had  wished  to  be  invited  to  accompany  them, 
but  in  spite  of  the  broadest  of  hints  had  failed  to 
attain  her  object.  "They've  gone  down  to  the 
Tescio.  I'm  sure  he'll  have  to  haul  Jill  up  the  hill. 
They'll  have  such  a  nice  serious  conversation  all  the 
way — all  about  Giotto  and  St.  Francis  and  the  fres- 
coes." She  yawned.  "There's  absolutely  nothing 
to  do  in  Assisi,  is  there,  now  we've  seen  all  the 
churches?" 

It  was  her  invariable  speech  preliminary  to  sug- 
gested departure  if  a  place  bored  her.  She  added 
then  with  a  laugh,  "And  Jill's  cut  me  out  with  the 
only  young  man  here !" 

"My  dear  Ammy,"  said  her  mother  in  a  tone  of 
shocked  disapproval,  "you  mustn't  forget  you  are 
engaged.  I  wish  you  took  it  more  seriously.  When 
I  was  engaged  to  your  dear  father  I  scarcely  spoke 
to  any  other  young  man." 

200 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  201 

"How  dull  it  must  have  been,"  said  Ammy. 
"Hengist  would  never  be  so  selfish.  He  likes  me 
to  have  a  good  time.  I  wonder,  though,  what  men 
see  in  Jill?  She's  so  quiet,  isn't  she?  And  she 
seems  so  old — not  like  a  girl.  I  suppose  she's  fret- 
ting about  that  scoundrel  Aylmer.  And  she's  not 
really  pretty  now — no  style  about  her!" 

"Those  quiet  women,"  said  Mrs.  Porter  with  an 
air  of  superior  wisdom,  "are  often  the  most  danger- 
ous. And  then,  Jill  is  very  well  off — that  always 
counts  with  men!  I  suppose  this  young  Frazer 
knows  that  she  has  divorced  her  husband?" 

"Oh  yes — I  told  him  myself — the  first  day,"  said 
Ammy  complacently;  "he  seemed  for  the  moment 
quite  shocked.  Catholics,  you  see,  disapprove  of 
divorce." 

"Still  he  comes  to  see  her.  He  comes  nearly 
every  day,"  objected  Mrs.  Porter. 

"Oh  yes,  he  comes  all  right!"  replied  Miss  Porter 
cheerfully. 

"Well,  Jill  must  manage  her  own  affairs,"  said 
Mrs.  Porter  in  a  resigned  tone.  "That  marriage 
of  hers  was  a  great  mistake.  I  told  Matty  Stan- 
way  so  at  the  time.  I  suppose  Lady  Pallant  engi- 
neered it.  Gillian  was  hardly  more  than  eighteen, 
and  she  looked  a  perfect  child.  It  ought  never  to 
have  been  allowed!" 

But  Amaryllis  fell  back  upon  her  old  statement. 

"I  always  said  that  Aylmer  was  a  bad  egg,"  she 
remarked,  "and  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  Jill's  friend 
Deborah  Venning  wasn't  a  worse  one!" 

"Deborah?  What  nonsense,  my  dear  Ammy! 
She  is  the  most  devoted  daughter  imaginable  to  that 
wretched  hyppchondriacal  old  man!  She  is  a  per- 
fect slave  to  his  whims  and  fancies.  There  has  never 
been  a  word  against  Deborah  Venning!" 

"That's  more  from  good  luck  than  from  good 


202  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

guidance,"  said  Amaryllis,  who  had  once  observed 
Aylmer  and  Deborah  lounging  in  a  canoe  on  a 
Thames  backwater,  but  who  had  kept  the  knowl- 
edge to  herself  with  most  unusual  discretion.  She 
had  never  since  then  been  in  the  least  deceived  by 
the  innocent  pursuits  of  Deborah — the  gardening, 
the  photography,  the  tireless  devotion  to  an  aged 
invalid  father.  She  had  wondered  sometimes  if  Gil- 
lian knew  anything,  and  if  so  why  she  was  so  obsti- 
nately silent. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Frazer  and  Gillian  were  walking 
slowly  down  the  steep  and  dusty  road,  beyond  the 
Porta  San  Francesco,  which  skirts  the  foot  of  the  hill 
above  which  the  convent  stands  like  some  mighty 
fortress.  On  one  side  of  the  road  a  high  wall  was 
thickly  covered  with  masses  of  ivy,  brambles,  wild 
clematis,  and  cistus ;  on  the  other  the  olive  orchards 
dipped  down  to  the  river.  The  sun  shone  on  the 
sharply  silhouetted  grey  foliage  of  the  olives,  en- 
hancing their  strange  silveriness.  Gillian  thought 
that  they  looked  like  moonlight  trees,  just  as  the 
ilexes  at  the  Villa  Meldola  had  seemed  to  belong  to 
the  twilight.  Across  the  green  valley,  filled  with 
vines  and  corn,  the  white  roads  dipped  and  rose  like 
twisted  shining  ribands,  while  the  broad  almost 
waterless  sandy  bed  of  the  Tescio  cut  a  wider  cleft 
through  the  landscape.  Sometimes  they  passed  a 
humble  little  grey  cottage,  beneath  whose  penthouse 
roof  was  sheltered  the  fading  yet  exquisite  fresco  of 
a  Madonna  and  Child.  What  hand  had  put  it 
there,  dedicating  time  and  talent  and  skill  to  the 
decoration  of  that  forlorn  little  dwelling?  Rather 
had  it  not  been  done  perhaps  as  a  labour  of  love, 
and  for  the  beautiful  and  simple  reason  that  passers- 
by  might  thus  be  stayed  for  one  moment's  recollec- 
tion upon  their  way,  one  moment's  joyful  prayer  as. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  203 

if  in  recognition  of  the  old  saying  so  often  inscribed 
upon  the  wayside  shrines  of  the  south: 

C'e  un'  allcgria 
Incontrar  la  Madonna  in  sua  via.  .  .  . 

Now  above  their  heads  the  church  with  its  fine 
belfry  was  almost  completely  hidden,  and  the  im- 
pregnable creamy-brown  walls  of  the  convent  looked 
more  than  ever  like  a  mighty  fortress  perched  on 
the  very  edge  of  the  precipice  whose  sides  were 
covered  with  verdure,  with  dwarf  acacias  deliciously 
emerald,  with  grass  and  bramble  bushes  and  gnarled 
olive  trees.  A  little  path  to  the  right  took  them 
down  to  the  river  bed,  and  they  walked  on  under 
the  shade  of  the  trees.  It  was  very  quiet  and  silent 
and  peaceful.  Here  and  there  little  farms  stood 
out  greyly,  pale  among  the  olives,  or  an  old  watch- 
tower  lifted  its  small  but  massive  shape.  The  hills  to- 
wards Perugia  were  painted  like  fading  violets  in 
the  afternoon  haze;  the  nearer  ones  stood  up  grey 
and  bare.  Against  the  severe  austerity  so  charac- 
teristic of  the  Umbrian  landscape  the  vivid  emerald 
tints  of  the  early  summer  foilage  made  a  contrast 
that  was  violent  and  arresting. 

"Don't  you  see,  Mrs.  Driscoll,"  Ian  Frazer  was 
saying,  "that  it  may  have  been  to  save  you  from 
taking  any  decisive  step  that  you  came  to  Italy?" 

"Just  lately  I  have  thought  it  might  be  so,"  Gil- 
lian confessed. 

He  was  the  first  person  to  whom  she  had  confided 
the  story  of  the  last  few  months.  She  had  indeed 
told  him  the  whole  of  it,  without  any  reserve.  The 
divorce,  Paul  Pallant's  wish  to  marry  her,  which 
would  inevitably  meet  with  the  disapproval  of  his 
mother,  supported  by  the  opinion  of  the  Reverend 
Mark  Reynolds;  her  arrival  in  Rome,  her  meeting 
with  Giacomo,  their  brief  engagement  with  its 


204  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

abrupt  termination.  She  had  not  even  spared  her- 
self the  recital'  of  that  interview  with  Marchesa 
della  Meldola,  which  had  scorched  her  heart  with 
very  shame.  It  had  not  been  easy  to  confess  how 
weakly  she  had  acted  towards  both  these  men  who 
had  loved  her,  and  how  swiftly  she  had  consented 
to  Giacomo's  wish  for  an  engagement.  But  it  had 
been  an  enormous  relief  to  speak  of  these  events, 
and  in  doing  so  something  of  their  sting  seemed  to 
have  been  removed. 

"And  now  I  suppose  I  shall  marry  Paul,"  she 
added  simply.  It  was  this  admission  which  had 
prompted  lan's  remark. 

"You  see — I'm  hoping  you  won't  marry,"  he  said 
after  a  short  pause,  his  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
horizon. 

"Why  should  you  hope  that?"  she  asked. 

His  face  was  set.  "Hasn't  it  ever  occurred  to 
you  that  there  must  have  been  some  very  definite  rea- 
son to  make  the  Meldolas  behave  like  that?" 

"Oh,  they're  Catholics,"  she  said.  "Of  course 
things  are  different  for  them.  They  are  obliged  to 
obey  laws  that  are  now  antiquated  and  cruel." 

They  had  come  to  the  bridge  of  Santa  Croce  that 
traverses  the  Tescio  near  the  grouped  buildings  of 
a  little  farm.  There  was  a  shrine  there  with  a  cruci- 
fix. Frazer  stood  before  it,  reverently  uncovering 
his  head.  Then  he  turned  to  her  and  there  was  a 
strange  light  in  his  blue  eyes. 

"And  isn't  that  antiquated  and  cruel?"  he  said. 

She  was  silent.  It  was  very  still  there,  very  silent. 
They  seemed  quite  alone  with  the  grey  mountains 
watching  them.  .  .  . 

"Yet  in  this  sign  we  conquer,"  Frazer  said  coldly; 
"any  sacrifice  we  can  make  seems  trivial  and  paltry 
in  comparison  with  that." 

Gillian  flushed. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  205 

"You  think  I  should  remain  alone,  without  love 
and  without  ties,  all  my  life  because  my  husband  was 
unfaithful  to  me?  I  am  not  yet  twenty-three." 

There  was  protest  as  well  as  anger  in  her  voice. 

"If  you  were  a  Catholic  that  is  precisely  what  you 
would  have  to  do,  unless  your  husband  died,"  he 
said. 

"Thank  heaven  I'm  not  one  then!"  said  Gillian 
violently. 

She  turned  her  eyes  away  from  the  crucifix.  She 
could  not  at  that  moment  bear  to  look  at  it.  It 
seemed  to  her  to  be  making  an  appeal  to  her,  pas- 
sionate although  inarticulate.  There  was  something 
in  that  rude  presentment  of  the  suffering  Christ  that 
did  definitely  speak  to  her  soul.  She  felt  it  in  every 
nerve  of  her  body.  She  shrank  away,  piteously, 
helplessly. 

Then  she  looked  timidly  at  Frazer  as  if  to  see 
whether  her  violent  words  had  shocked  him.  His 
lips  moved;  she  thought  he  must  be  praying.  The 
strange  stern  lines  of  his  face  were  oddly  empha- 
sised. 

"What  a  cruel,  horrible  religion  1"  she  said,  stifling 
a  sob. 

"If  this  world  were  all  it  might  seem  cruel.  As 
it  is,  our  vision  should  be  fixed  upon  the  eternal  re- 
ward, offered  after  what  is  almost  an  absurdly  brief 
probation." 

He  looked  at  her  then  almost  compassionately  as 
if  she  had  been  a  little  child  rebelling  against  its 
first  experience  of  pain. 

She  said  quickly: 

"There's  nothing  in  the  world  to  prevent  my 
marrying  Paul.  We  should  be  quite  independent  of 
Lady  Pallant.  I  hate  being  alone.  I'm  not  one 
of  those  women  who  can  occupy  themselves  with  all 
sorts  of  little  petty  concerns  from  morning  till  night. 


206  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

I  am  siclc  to  death  of  my  present  life.  I  don't  love 
Paul,  it  is  true,  but  I'm  very  fond  of  him  and  he 
adores  me.  I  was  afraid  that  I  might  be  bored — 
but  now  I  seem  to  want  the  very  peace  and  security 
he  can  give  me !" 

"Please  don't  think  I'm  blind  to  your  point  of 
view,"  said  Frazer  more  gently;  "don't  think  I  am 
unimaginative  of  the  kind  of  sacrifice  that  would  be 
demanded  of  you." 

They  had  moved  away  now  and  were  walking 
slowly  up  the  steep  hill  towards  Assisi.  Gillian  was 
moving  on  a  little  ahead  of  him.  Every  now  and 
then  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  white  troubled  face. 

She  said  at  last,  facing  him : 

"I  couldn't,  couldn't  do  it!  Not  even  if  I  were  a 
Catholic.  I  tell  you  I've  never  been  able  to  under- 
stand Giacomo.  I  can  only  believe  that  he  didn't 
really  care." 

"If  you  were  a  Catholic  you  would  understand," 
he  said  quietly,  "and  you  would  find  it  less  hard. 
Discipline  always  makes  things  easier  when  tempta- 
tion comes.  That  is  why  we  train  the  soldier  in 
time  of  peace.  The  dull  monotonous  daily  drill  and 
daily  obedience  prepare  us  until  to  conform  be- 
comes a  habit  of  the  soul.  And  then  it  isn't  so  easy 
to  break  the  habit  when  it's  been  instilled  into  us 
day  by  day  over  a  very  long  period  of  time.  It  be- 
comes easier  to  obey  than  to  disobey,  easier  to  do 
violence  to  the  body  than  to  the  soul." 

He  spoke  with  a  kind  of  rapt  earnestness.  Gil- 
lian felt  the  sincerity  of  his  words,  although  she 
rebelled  against  them. 

"I'm  sure  we  were  intended  to  be  happy  I"  she 
exclaimed. 

"Isn't  that,"  he  pursued,  "the  doctrine  of  an 
ignorant  child?  The  Catholic  finds  no  happiness 
apart  from  conformity  to  the  will  of  God.  To  dis- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  207 

obey  gives  not  happiness  but  torment,  separating  the 
soul  from  God.  This  is  a  much  stronger,  fiercer 
pain  than  can  be  produced  by  any  crucifixion  of  the 
physical  senses." 

Gillian  felt  bewildered  and  confused.  The  man 
beside  her  was  young;  at  most  he  could  be  five  or 
six  and  twenty,  yet  he  spoke  of  sacrifice  as  if  it  were 
a  right  rather  than  a  burden.  Not  a  hard  thing  to 
be  eluded,  but  the  right  claimed  by  the  soul  in  its 
earnest  striving  after  God;  the  right  to  suffer  as 
Christ  had  suffered;  the  right  of  the  Christian^ to 
take  up  his  cross  daily  in  imitation  of  the  Divine 
example,  and  bleed  and  bend  beneath  that  sorrow- 
ful load.  .  .  . 

"Oh,"  he  said  suddenly,  "I  wish  I  could  make  you 
see  clearly!" 

She  was  silent,  and  hurried  on  a  little  with  her 
face  averted.  Against  her  will  his  words  were  in- 
fluencing her,  in  spite  of  her  fierce  desire  to  oppose 
and  combat  them. 

"You  find  it  all  so  easy,  then?"  she  said  at  last, 
pausing,  for  the  path  was  steep  and  she  was  begin- 
ning to  feel  a  little  tired.  They  stood  facing  each 
other.  There  was  no  one  else  in  sight. 

"I  have  not  always  found  it  easy.  But  the  daily 
drill  is  beginning  to  do  its  work.  I'm  afraid  I'm  not 
a  very  malleable  person,  and  the  Hand  of  the  Potter 
hurts,  you  know,  when  one  has  to  be  made  into 
another  vessel.  It  hasn't  been  easy  to  hammer  me 
into  some  sort  of  shape." 

"But  you're  content?"  She  flung  the  word  at 
him  almost  with  contempt. 

"Very  much  so,"  he  answered,  smiling. 

"Why,  you're  little  better  than  a  slave!" 

"Wasn't  St.  Paul  proud  to  call  himself  the  pris- 
oner of  Christ? — he  who  was  born  free,  the  citizen 
of  no  mean  city?" 


208  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

She  struck  in:  "What  has  that  got  to  do  with 
us  here — now — in  the  twentieth  century?" 

"Exactly  as  much  as  it  had  to  do  with  St.  Paul  in 
the  first!"  he  answered,  and  his  face  broke  into  a 
smile. 

"I  can't  believe  it.  Things  change.  They  have 
to  be  adjusted  to  the  times  in  which  we  live — to  the 
needs  of  a  newer  generation." 

"The  Church  doesn't  change,"  he  reminded  her, 
"she  keeps  the  Word  inviolate." 

He  looked  up  towards  the  brown  tower  of  St. 
Francesco.  On  that  bright  June  afternoon  its  belfry 
arches  framed  spaces  of  almost  unbelievable 
blue 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "I  don't  want  to  offend  you,  Mrs. 
Driscoll,  but  perhaps — I  hope  and  pray  at  least  that 
it  may  be  so — you  have  come  to  Assisi  to  learn  .  .  . 
here  where  St.  Francis  made  his  great  renunciation 
and  became  the  Little  Poor  Man  of  God!" 

His  voice  with  its  cold  and  passionless  eloquence 
stirred  Gillian  in  spite  of  herself.  She  said  nothing, 
but  side  by  side  they  walked  through  the  Porta  S. 
Giacomo  back  into  the  town.  Women  sat  upon  the 
doorsteps  knitting;  children  and  dogs  and  chickens 
played  about  in  the  dusty  roadway.  Men  lounged 
idly,  smoking  the  cheap  black  Italian  cigars,  and 
cast  curious  glances  at  the  English  couple  as  they 
passed.  At  the  door  of  the  hotel  they  parted.  Gil- 
lian felt  as  if  there  were  something  at  once  wistful 
and  compassionate  in  the  look  he  bestowed  upon 
her  as  he  said  good-bye. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WHEN  Gillian  went  up  to  her  room  she  found 
two  English  letters  waiting  for  her.  One  was 
from  Miss  Letitia,  and  the  other  from  Paul  Pal- 
lant.  The  sight  of  his  handwriting  at  that  moment 
was  a  little  unwelcome  to  her,  jarring  upon  her 
nerves  after  the  conversation  she  had  had  with  Ian 
Frazer  that  afternoon.  She  laid  it  aside  rather 
impatiently  and  opened  her  aunt's  letter.  Miss 
Letitia  used  thin  foreign  paper  of  the  old-fashioned 
slippery  kind  and  her  writing  was  rather  shaky  and 
indistinct.  But  Gillian  very  soon  grasped  the  gist 
of  the  letter.  Miss  Matty  was  decidedly  worse,  and 
although  she  still  insisted  upon  getting  up  at  the 
usual  hour  and  coming  downstairs  every  day  she  was 
looking  dreadfully  thin  and  ill.  Aunt  Letty  ac- 
knowledged that  she  felt  anxious  and  uneasy  about 
her.  She  wished  that  Gillian  were  not  so  far  away. 
But  perhaps  she  would  be  returning  to  England 
soon.  Items  of  Bath  news,  of  no  particular  interest 
to  Gillian,  followed,  and  the  letter  concluded  a  little 
abrupty  because  "post  is  going  and  Matty  is  calling 
me." 

Gillian  meditated  a  little  upon  this  letter;  for  the 
moment  she  forgot  that  other  envelope  directed  in 
Paul's  handwriting  that  was  lying  close  to  her  elbow. 
Aunt  Letty  was  evidently  seriously  anxious  about 
her  sister.  It  was  now  some  time  since  Miss  Matty's 
health  had  begun  to  fail.  Last  time  Gillian  had  seen 
her  quite  early  in  the  year  she  had  not  looked  at  all 
well,  and  she  had  been  unable  to  accompany  her 
sister  to  town  to  say  good-bye  to  Gillian  just  before 
she  left  for  Italy.  She  was  not  a  woman  to  give  in 
very  easily  to  failing  health.  Resting  with  her  was 

209 


210  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"sloth."  She  would  be  certain  to  put  up  a  grim 
fight. 

Then  Gillian  remembered  Paul's  letter  and  slowly 
opened  it.  ... 

He  had  not  written  to  her  for  some  weeks  and 
he  seemed  distressed  because  she  had  not  answered 
his  former  letters.  From  the  time  of  her  first  meet- 
ing with  Giacomo,  Gillian  had  not  written  to  Paul. 
When  she  became  engaged  she  made  up  her  mind  to 
break  gradually  with  Paul,  to  write  less  and  less 
often,  to  teach  him  by  degrees  that  he  must  cease 
to  hope.  Then  as  the  date  of  her  marriage  grew 
nearer  she  would  tell  him  of  her  intention  to  marry 
Giacomo  and  thus  sever  the  ties  that  held  her  to 
England  with  one  swift,  irrevocable  cutting  of  the 
knot. 

Since  the  rupture  with  Giacomo  she  had  not  com- 
municated with  anybody  except  her  old  aunts.  Her 
heart  was  too  sore  for  letter-writing.  She  did  not 
wish  to  tell  any  one  at  home  of  the  episode.  Now, 
in  the  utter  loneliness  and  desolation  that  had  super- 
vened upon  Giacomo's  abrupt  breaking  of  the  en- 
gagement, her  thoughts  had  turned  insensibly  to- 
wards Paul,  and  there  was  no  doubt  she  had  begun 
to  consider  seriously  the  question  of  marrying  her 
cousin.  In  a  world  that  seemed  made  up  of  faith- 
lessness, perfidy,  and  change,  she  saw  in  Paul  some- 
thing that  was  unchanging  as  a  rock.  Paul  would 
always  love  her.  He  would  give  her  the  secondary 
happiness  which  was  all  she  could  ever  hope  to 
claim.  Paul  would  give  her  the  things  she  wished 
for — love,  a  place  in  the  world,  a  home,  perhaps 
children.  She  did  not  love  him,  but  she  was  very 
fond  of  him,  and  she  felt  that  in  time  her  very  grati- 
tude would  teach  her  to  love  him.  Only  to-day  Ian 
Frazer's  words  had  sown  in  her  heart  all  manner 
of  uncomfortable  doubts  and  fears.  Perhaps  Paul's 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  211 

letter  might  help  to  dispel  them,  to  mitigate  their 
influence. 

It  was  a  long  letter,  full  of  his  hopes  and  plans 
for  the  future.  He  was  uneasy  at  her  silence;  he 
seemed  to  dread  some  change  in  her.  She  had  not, 
it  is  true,  given  him  much  hope,  but  then  she  had 
not,  on  the  other  hand,  left  him  quite  hopeless. 
Now  he  implored  her  to  write.  At  the  end  came 
these  words:  "Good-bye,  most  darling  Gillian.  Let 
me  have  your  answer  soon.  You  make  me  fear 
.  .  .  when  I  think  of  all  the  power  you  have  to 
wound  me  in  those  two  little  beautiful  hands  of 
yours." 

This  man  wished  to  marry  her.  He  told  her  he 
could  not  wait  beyond  October.  And  what  need 
was  there  to  wait?  She  turned  back  to  the  first 
sheet  and  read  over  again:  "I  can't  bear  your 
being  so  far  away.  Why  don't  you  come  back  to 
England  ?  I  can't  picture  you  in  those  places  I  have 


A  loud  knock  at  the  door  signified  the  arrival  of 
Miss  Porter.  Gillian  rose  and  opened  it.  Her  let- 
ters were  still  lying  loose  on  the  table.  She  was  not 
extremely  pleased  at  being  thus  interrupted. 

"Had  a  nice  walk?"  inquired  Miss  Porter  teas- 
ingly. 

"Yes — such  a  pretty  walk,"  answered  Gillian, 
scarcely  knowing  what  she  said.  Already  the  trivial 
episode  seemed  to  her  to  have  been  swallowed  up 
in  the  immense  remote  past.  Her  thoughts  were  full 
of  Paul  Pallant,  who  was  offering  her  now  more 
than  he  knew.  Offering  her  indeed  so  much  that 
had  he  come  into  the  room  she  thought  she  could 
have  fallen  on  her  knees  and  thanked  him.  .  .  . 

Amaryllis  walked  up  to  the  window,  and  sitting 
down  in  an  armchair  gazed  out  upon  the  view  that 


212  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

was  now  bathed  in  the  golden  evening  light.    Then 
she  turned  to  Gillian. 

"You  look  tired,  Jill,"  she  said;  "was  the  con- 
versation very  strenuous?" 

Gillian  laughed  evasively.  "It  defends  upon 
what  you  call  strenuous." 

"He  is  charming,  but  just  a  trifle  heavy  in  hand," 
pursued  Ammy.  I'm  sure  though  he'd  be  a  nailer 
on  the  links.  I  dare  say  he  could  give  me  two  up 
and  beat  me !  And  of  course  he  is  very  good-look- 
ing. But  you  mustn't  let  yourself  fall  in  love  with 
him.  He's  a  Catholic  and  so  he  couldn't  possibly 
marry  you.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  that,  but  they 
are  not  allowed  to  marry  any  one  who's  got  a  di- 
vorced husband  or  wife." 

"Of  course  I  know  that,"  replied  Gillian.  The 
knowledge  had  been  veritably  branded  into  her  flesh, 
and  she  was  almost  amazed  with  herself  for  thus 
answering  Amaryllis  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone.  "You 
need  not  be  at  all  afraid — I  am  not  in  the  least 
likely  to  fall  in  love  with  Mr.  Frazer  or  any  one 
else." 

"You've  had  letters,  I  see,"  said  Miss  Porter,  sur- 
veying the  little  heap  of  torn  envelopes. 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  from  home.  Aunt  Letty  says 
that  Aunt  Matty  is  getting  worse.  She  seems  anx- 
ious about  her.  And  I  have  heard  from  my  cousin 
Paul  Pallant.  You  remember  the  Pallants,  don't 
you,  Ammy?" 

"Only  the  old  lady.     But  I've  heard  that  Paul 
would  be  very  good-looking  if  he  weren't  so  smalll" 
"He  isn't  so  very  small,"  said  Gillian  rather  re- 
sentfully; "he  is  only  about  an  inch  shorter  than  I 
am." 

"Yes,  but  that's  tiny  for  a  man,"  said  Amaryllis, 
who  boasted  of  six  feet  in  her  stockings.  "I  some- 
times wonder  who  you'll  marry  in  the  end,  Jill." 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  213 

"Perhaps  no  one,"  said  Mrs.  Driscoll  with  a 
strange  little  smile. 

Was  it  the  result  of  some  curious  process  of 
thought-transference  that  Amaryllis  should  come 
now  and  speak  to  her  of  marriage? 

"Oh,  I  know  you've  had  a  perfectly  rotten  experi- 
ence," said  Miss  Porter  pityingly,  "but  still  all  men 
aren't  like  Aylmer." 

"No  ...  I  suppose  not." 

"I  dare  say  we  shall  have  all  sorts  of  ups  and 
downs — Hengist  and  I,"  continued  Miss  Porter, 
"but  they'll  be  just  the  ordinary  commonplace  ups 
and  downs  that  most  people  have.  I'm  not  a  bit 
afraid,  because  I  feel  I  can  trust  him.  And  if  you 
could  meet  some  one  who  gave  you  that  feeling  it 
would  be  the  happiest  thing  for  you  to  marry  him. 
You're  too  young  to  be  alone  on  your  own  like  this." 

"I  shall  get  older  every  year,"  said  Gillian. 

She  took  up  Paul's  letter,  folded  it  meticulously 
and  put  it  back  in  the  envelope.  Was  not  Paul  just 
such  a  man  as  Amaryllis  had  described — some  one 
who  could  be  wholly  trusted,  and  with  whom  the 
ordinary  ups  and  downs  could  be  bravely  and  cheer- 
fully faced?  The  comfort  of  his  letter  had  brought 
a  little  peace  back  to  her  heart. 

Amaryllis  rose;  she  was  finding  her  friend  a  lit- 
tle dull  and  uncommunicative. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  Aylmer  I  really  believe  this 
young  Frazer  would  have  fallen  in  love  with  you," 
she  said. 

"What  nonsense!"  said  Gillian  flushing;  "why,  I 
don't  think  he  even  likes  me !" 

"Likes  you?  Of  course  he  does!  Do  you  sup- 
pose he  comes  down  from  his  eyrie  six  days  out  of 
seven  just  for  the  good  of  his  health?"  rejoined 
Miss  Porter  briskly. 

She  went  out  of  the  room  laughing. 


214  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"She  is  wrong,"  said  Gillian  to  herself;  "he  only 
comes  because  he  thinks  it  is  his  mission  to  save  my 
soul." 

She  was  aware  in  her  intercourse  with  this  man, 
who  did  not  hesitate  to  speak  the  most  bitter  and 
unpalatable  truths  to  her,  that  his  liking  for  her  was 
based  on  a  very  different  footing  from  any  other 
that  had  hitherto  been  offered  to  her.  She  had 
had  experience  of  the  sudden  passion  she  could 
arouse,  evinced  in  turn  by  Aylmer,  Paul,  and  Gia- 
como.  But  this  man  could  look  her  coldly  in  the 
eyes  and  tell  her  where  he  considered  her  wrong. 
The  process  was  not  pleasant;  it  was  like  going  to 
school  again  to  a  severe  schoolmaster  who  set  at 
defiance  all  former  systems  of  education.  Gillian 
fought  hard  against  the  growing  influence  of  Ian 
Frazer.  She  told  herself  that  he  was  a  fanatic.  He 
had  fanatical  eyes;  she  could  picture  him  going  to 
the  stake  with  head  erect  and  mouth  grimly  set,  a 
triumphant  and  conquering  figure.  He  did  not  care 
for  her  at  all,  but  he  cared  very  much  for  "the 
pilgrim  soul  in  her."  And  through  it  all  she  had  the 
uncomfortable  consciousness  that  he  might  be  right. 
He  was  giving  her  scruples,  her  conscience  was  be- 
ginning to  prick  her  warningly,  and  she  could  only 
combat  its  admonitions  with  a  weak  and  nervous 
defiance.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  believe  that 
in  the  event  of  her  remarrying  she  would  be  com- 
mitting what  a  very  large  number  of  people  held  to 
be  a  grave  sin. 

She  sat  down  by  the  window,  and  leaning  her  head 
on  her  hands  looked  out  at  the  wide  landscape  of 
mountain  and  plain.  She  thought  she  could  almost 
have  drawn  the  view  from  memory.  Green  and 
grey  the  Umbrian  plain  lay  beautifully  outspread, 
touching  the  feet  of  those  grave  mountains.  Perugia 
was  silhouetted  against  the  sky;  the  city  was  in 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  215 

shadow  now,  she  could  only  see  the  massed  shapes 
of  its  towers.  In  the  garden  below  crickets  were 
chirping  shrilly  and  the  frogs  were  chanting  their 
ceaseless  couac  couac.  The  little  white  hamlets  and 
villages  down  in  the  plain  looked  like  pale  spots 
breaking  the  verdure. 

Presently  she  rose  and  went  downstairs  and  crept 
out  of  the  hotel.  She  hurried  across  the  steep  white 
piazza  and  gained  the  Lower  Church.  Its  soft 
darkness  seemed  to  touch  her  with  a  healing  hand; 
she  groped  her  way  in,  and  mounting  the  steps  into 
the  chapel  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament  she  knelt  down 
and  prayed. 

Her  prayer  was  at  first  formless,  it  was  an  almost 
inarticulate  appeal  for  guidance.  The  mystery  and 
sanctity  of  the  hour  quieted  the  fierce  disturbance  of 
her  thoughts  and  gave  her  an  unaccustomed  sense  of 
peace.  She  could  not  come  here  any  more — and 
this  fact  was  borne  in  upon  her  with  all  the  illumina- 
tion of  a  sudden  revelation — and  say  to  herself,  "I 
don't  believe — I  don't  believe,"  and  then  go  away 
with  conscience  and  its  cruel  scruples  silenced.  She 
believed,  and  at  that  moment  she  ceased  temporarily 
to  struggle  and  fight.  If  she  became  a  Catholic  she 
must  renounce  all  thought  of  marriage,  all  her 
dreams  of  a  home,  of  little  children  playing  around 
her.  The  thought  coldly  envisaged  would  at  any 
other  time  have  proved  unbearable ;  she  would  have 
dismissed  it  summarily.  But  now  and  here  it  was  no 
longer  unbearable.  The  soul  asserted  its  claims; 
its  eternal  claims,  its  superior  rights.  Ian  Frazer 
had  shown  her  clearly  what  those  rights  were.  He 
had  taught  her  the  truth  almost  brutally  and  she 
had  been  compelled  to  look  at  it.  And  with  that 
steady  envisagement  it  had  lost  already  something 
of  its  terror.  She  did  not  actually  fear  it  nor  shrink 
from  it  any  more.  It  could  not  make  her  heart  sink, 


2i6  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

her  limbs  tremble.  She  could  face  it  undismayed. 
Even  the  figure  of  Ian  Frazer  had  drifted  beyond 
her  thoughts.  He  was  only  a  machine,  an  instru- 
ment, a  messenger.  .  .  . 

Not  always  is  the  soul  aware  of  any  definite  post 
passed  in  its  individual  spiritual  development. 
Normally  that  development  is  a  slow,  tentative 
process,  subject  to  innumerable  conditions  that  op- 
pose and  thwart  it  in  its  purpose.  But  Gillian  knew 
quite  definitely  that  on  that  evening  she  had  passed 
through  a  spiritual  crisis  that  had  the  power  to 
change  drastically  her  future  life.  And  for  the 
moment  the  soul  had  triumphed,  was  in  the  as- 
cendant, asserting  arrogantly  its  lordship,  its  im- 
mortal rights.  This  gave  her  no  sense  of  elation,  of 
achievement;  those  emotions  belong  to  the  attain- 
ment of  the  temporal  prize.  Rather  it  brought  to 
her  a  sense  of  exhaustion  as  if  she  had  emerged 
from  some  fierce  physical  crisis  and  struggle;  she 
even  felt  a  diminution  of  physical  strength.  She 
had,  too,  a  feeling  of  absolute  aridity,  as  if  she  had 
no  power  to  make  further  effort  or  progress.  There 
was  as  yet  no  joy  in  this  new  faith  that  had  fought 
its  way  into  her  heart,  with  a  fierce  persistence  that 
would  not  be  gainsaid.  It  had  seemed  to  her  almost 
like  an  actual  physical  onrush  of  wild  waters  bent 
on  overwhelming  her;  the  waves  had  lifted  her  off 
her  feet,  their  strength  had  given  her  a  moment  of 
terror  almost  great  enough  to  kill  her.  No  resist- 
ance was  of  any  avail,  but  then  all  desire  to  resist 
had  most  strangely  left  her.  She  felt,  too,  as  if  she 
had  been  pursued  and  captured  by  some  violent  and 
powerful  hunter  that  had  marked  her  down  for  a 
special  quarry.  .  .  .  And  after  the^hase,  after  the 
capture,  she  had  seemed  to  lie  for  just  one  inde- 
scribable moment  in  welcoming  arms  that  sur- 
rounded and  comforted  her.  .  The  wild  waves 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  217 

had  become  a  serene  sea  whereon  she  could  lie 
dreamily  floating;  the  fierce  captor  had  suddenly  as- 
sumed the  guise  of  a  friend  bent  upon  saving  her 
from  some  unimagined  peril.  .  .  . 

When  she  left  the  church  dusk  was  falling,  draw- 
ing soft  misty  purple  veils  over  the  plain.  Only  the 
mountains  were  clearly  outlined  against  a  serene 
sky.  She  could  see  Perugia's  ring  of  gleaming  lights 
from  her  little  terrace.  Westward  the  sky  was 
painted  brilliantly  with  scarlet  and  crimson  as 
if  the  colours  of  a  lavish  palette  had  been 
spilled  thereon.  .  .  . 

Limp  and  exhausted  Gillian  crept  into  bed. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  she  scribbled  a 
little  note  to  Ian  Frazer:  "Don't  come.  I  can- 
not see  you  to-day. — G.  D."  She  gave  it  to  the 
maid  who  brought  her  early  coffee,  and  asked  that 
it  should  be  sent  up  at  once  to  that  remote  abode  in 
the  hills. 

At  nine  o'clock  Amaryllis  marched  into  the  room. 

"Lazy  beggar,"  she  admonished,  stooping  down 
and  kissing  Gillian.  "What  on  earth  are  you  lying 
in  bed  for  this  lovely  morning?  My  word  though — 
you  are  looking  washed  out!  What's  up?" 

She  contemplated  Gillian  with  interested  eyes. 

"I've  had  a  very  bad  night  and  I  feel  a  most 
awful  wreck,"  said  Mrs.  Driscoll,  flushing  a  little 
under  the  friendly  scrutiny. 

"I've  had  a  telegram  from  Hengist,"  said 
Amaryllis;  "he's  got  leave  sooner  than  he  thought, 
and  he  wants  us  to  meet  him  at  Marseilles.  I've 
just  got  mother  to  agree,  but  it  wasn't  an  easy  job. 
She  can't  bear  having  new  plans  sprung  on  her  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning.  We  shall  have  to  start 
to-day,  as  of  course  I  want  to  get  there  before  he 
does." 

"Of  course  you  do,"  agreed  Gillian.  "And  will 
that  mean  you'll  be  married  soon,  Ammy  dear?" 

"I  expect  that's  what  he'll  want,"  returned  Miss 
Porter  complacently,  but  .with  a  sudden  access  of 
colour. 

Gillian  felt  a  pang  of  envy  at  her  friend's  hap- 
piness. "I'm  so  glad,  Ammy,"  she  said  quietly; 
"I'm  sure  you'll  be  very  happy.  You  deserve  to 
be." 

"Oh  well,  I  shan't  grumble  whatever  happens," 
218 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  219 

said  Miss  Porter.  "I've  told  Hengist  I'm  ready  to 

in  the 
look- 
howl 

when  the  road's  rough.  You  have  to  be  jolly  fond 
of  a  man  to  feel  like  that,  I  can  tell  you,  Jill!" 

"I'm  sorry  you  are  going  away,"  said  Gillian.  She 
began  to  feel  that  she  would  be  more  than  ever 
lonely  when  the  Porters  had  taken  their  departure. 

"Shall  you  stay  on  here?"  inquired  Miss  Porter. 

"For  a  little.  I  haven't  made  any  plans.  And 
I'm  getting  to  like  the  place." 

"Won't  you  find  it  very  dull?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  so." 

"Don't  let  Mr.  Frazer  bore  you  too  much,"  said 
Amaryllis  tea  singly. 

"Oh,  I  shan't  let  him  bore  me." 

Amaryllis  looked  at  her  with  increased  attention. 
A  sudden  consciousness  that  something  was  terribly 
awry  in  the  life  of  this  woman  who  was  so  little 
older  than  herself  stirred  her  to  a  sudden  pity. 

"I  say,"  she  blurted  out,  "are  you  very  miserable, 
Jill?" 

"I  am  not  very  happy,"  said  Gillian  with  an 
effort. 

"You  ought  to  marry.  You're  at  such  a  loose 
end — rotting  about  these  foreign  places  alone." 

"I  don't  think  I  want  to  marry,"  said  Gillian 
vaguely. 

A  month  ago  she  had  been  passionately  rebellious 
because  she  could  not  marry  Giacomo  della  Meldola, 
and  now  even  that  episode  was  fading  a  little  from 
her  mind.  She  was  in  a  passive  state,  receiving  new 
impressions  and  suggestions  that  disturbed  and  tor- 
mented her,  even  while  they  were  subtly  changing 
and  moulding  her.  So  must  the  passive  clay  be 
twisted  and  tormented,  beaten  into  its  destined 


220  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

shape.  Had  not  Ian  Frazer  said  that  the  Hand  of 
the  Potter  hurt  as  it  wrought  its  work  upon  the 
wheel  ?  She  could  feel  the  pain  of  that  new  shaping 
in  every  nerve  of  her  body.  Just  for  the  moment 
she  was  not  rebellious,  she  had  surrendered  herself 
limply  but  entirely  to  the  process  of  that  moulding. 
She  was  suffering,  but  not  as  a  child  suffers,  without 
comprehension;  she  resembled  more  a  person  who 
has  deliberately  submitted  his  body  to  the  sharp 
torture  of  the  surgeon's  knife  for  a  definite  purpose, 
careless  of  the  suffering  if  by  this  means  the  end  can 
be  achieved.  How  long  this  condition  of  mind 
would  last  with  her  she  could  not  tell.  It  might  be 
that  old  influences  would  arise  and  re-assert  their 
dominion  over  her.  It  might  be  that  this  was  only 
a  passing  phase  of  emotion  to  which  she  had  tem- 
porarily yielded  herself.  But  whatever  its  character 
the  new  influence  had  the  upper  hand  of  her  at  the 
moment.  She  was  too  weak  to  struggle.  Last  night 
she  had  felt  sheltered  and  comforted;  to-day  she 
felt  only  a  despairing  aridity  of  soul. 

She  became  aware  that  Amaryllis  was  speaking. 

"Depend  upon  it,"  she  was  saying  with  conviction, 
"that  when  you  feel  about  a  man  as  I  do  about 
Hengist  you've  spotted  a  winner,  you  have  got  hold 
of  a  dead  cinch  as  they  say  in  America.  In  fact, 
it's  It.  I  want  you  to  get  hold  of  a  dead  cinch,  too, 
Jill!" 

Gillian  said  slowly:  "I  believe  it's  the  fate  of 
some  women  never  to  get  hold  of  a — a  dead  cinch, 
Ammy."  The  unaccustomed  expression  brought  a 
smile  to  her  lips,  but  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

When  Amaryllis  had  left  her  she  still  made  no 
attempt  to  get  up  and  dress.  The  window  was  open 
and  the  soft  morning  air,  refreshed  by  heavy  night 
dews  and  mists,  touched  her  forehead  languorously. 
She  tried  to  read,  but  found  that  it  was  impossible 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  221 

to  fix  her  attention.  The  actual  crisis  had  passed, 
and  now  a  little  reaction  had  set  in.  Last  night — 
even  early  this  morning — everything  had  seemed 
comparatively  easy;  she  had  been  as  it  were  uplifted 
upon  wings,  an  exaltation  that  was  rather  imposed 
than  desired.  But  now  fresh  doubts  began  to  creep 
into  her  heart.  She  had  yielded,  there  could  be  no 
doubt,  to  a  passing  fugitive  emotion,  very  strong, 
very  compelling,  but  surely  of  no  permanent  influ- 
ence. It  had  threatened  to  take  possession  of  her, 
change  her  life,  condemn  her  to  what  amounted  to 
martyrdom  in  so  far  as  earthly  happiness  was  con- 
cerned. 

As  she  recognised  this  a  little  hot  sense  of  rebel- 
lion came  into  her  heart.  She  would  not  yield.  She 
had  allowed  herself  to  be  unduly  influenced  by  Ian 
Frazer.  He  had  made  her  superstitiously  afraid  of 
taking  her  life  into  her  own  hands  and  shaping  it  as 
she  would,  extracting  from  it  something  of  temporal 
peace  and  pleasure.  Why  should  she  be  less  fortu- 
nate than  Amaryllis?  aGod  can't  want  me  to  be 
unhappy,"  she  said  to  herself.  When  Ian  Frazer's 
words  came  back  to  her  memory  she  put  them  from 
her  resolutely.  Catholics,  he  had  said,  could  find 
no  happiness  apart  from  comformity  with  the  Will 
of  God.  Why  should  she  listen  to  this  man  with  his 
dismal  teaching?  She  rose  at  last,  dressed  herself 
with  an  almost  feverish  haste,  and  went  down  to 
luncheon,  partaking  of  this  meal  in  the  company  of 
the  Porters.  She  afterwards  accompanied  them  to 
the  station  and  witnessed  their  departure.  She  was 
genuinely  sorry  that  they  had  gone;  she  felt  that 
Assisi  would  seem  a  little  lonely  without  them.  And 
she  knew  that  she  would  be  rather  at  the  mercy  of 
Ian  Frazer — she  almost  dreaded  meeting  him  again. 

Fate,  however,  intervened,  for  on  the  following 
morning  when  she  was  sitting  writing  letters  in  her 
room  a  knock  at  the  door  disturbed  her. 


222  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

In  answer  to  her  "Avanti!"  a  servant  entered 
bringing  her  a  telegram.  It  was  from  her  aunt, 
and  ran  as  follows : 

"Matty  seriously  ill.  Come  at  once. — LETITIA 
STANWAY." 

Gillian  scribbled  her  reply,  "Coming  immediately. 
GILLIAN,"  and  gave  it  to  the  maid.  Then  almost 
mechanically  she  rose  and  began  to  do  her  packing. 
One  thought  filled  her  mind.  The  message  had 
seemed  to  her  almost  like  a  sign.  She  would  shake 
herself  free  of  Assisi,  of  all  that  she  had  learned 
there.  She  would  not  see  Ian  Frazer  again;  he 
would  know  nothing  of  her  departure  until  after  she 
had  gone.  She  was  going  back  to  England ;  she  was 
going  to  see  Paul.  Her  journey  seemed  infinitely 
less  concerned  with  Aunt  Matty's  illness  than  with 
Paul. 

July  wrapped  Italy  in  a  lovely  golden  embrace  as 
the  train  passed  northward;  the  liquid  gold  of  that 
summer  light  lay  beautifully  upon  the  vineyards  and 
olive  orchards,  on  the  stacks  of  corn  that  had  just 
been  reaped.  In  Switzerland,  however,  it  was  rain- 
ing and  the  rain  followed  her  through  France;  she 
felt  chilled  and  cold  and  rather  desolate.  She, 
reached  town  on  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day, 
and  caught  an  express  from  Paddington  to  Bath. 
She  wondered  what  news  awaited  her.  As  the  train 
sped  through  the  quiet  and  familiar  beauty  of  the 
Thames  valley  she  remembered  suddenly,  almost  in- 
consequently,  that  she  had  never  answered  Paul's 
letter.  She  had  put  it  aside  intending  to  write  to 
him,  and  then  in  her  hurried  departure  had  found 
no  time  to  do  so. 

The  news  revealed  itself  in  her  first  glimpse  of 
the  little  grey  house  where  her  girlhood  had  been 
spent.  It  was  night,  and  no  lights  were  visible  in  any 
of  the  windows.  The  blinds  were  all  drawn  down, 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  223 

giving  that  blank  look  to  the  windows  as  of  blind 
unseeing  eyes.  The  cab  stopped  and  the  door  was 
flung  open  without  delay.  In  the  hall  Aunt  Letty 
flung  her  arms  around  her  sobbing,  "You're  too  late, 
dear.  She  passed  away  last  night."  Gillian, 
startled  and  bewildered,  bent  down  and  kissed  the 
wet  withered  cheek  in  mute  sympathy.  Then  she 
followed  her  aunt  upstairs. 

It  was  when  they  had  left  Miss  Martha's  room 
that  Aunt  Letty,  still  clasping  Gillian's  arm,  said 
wistfully:  "I'm  thankful  to  have  you  back,  my 
dear.  And  I  thought  perhaps  now  that  we  were 
both  alone,  you  would  stay  and  make  your  home 
with  me.  Oh,  I  know  it's  too  early  to  make  plans — 
but  Matty  was  all  my  world,  and  I  shall  feel  so  lost 
without  her.  You  know  how  clever  she  was,  and 
how  she  used  to  keep  me  from  saying  and  doing 
foolish  things."  It  was  thus  she  charitably  envisaged 
that  past  tyranny  against  which  she  had  never  re- 
belled. She  looked  pitifully  at  Gillian.  "I'm  sure 
I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  without  her." 

Her  weak  old  face  was  distorted  with  grief.  Gil- 
lian kissed  her.  That  so  recent  contact  with  death 
had  chilled  her,  and  she  was  shivering  a  little  and 
could  hardly  control  her  voice  as  she  said:  "As  you 
say,  it's  too  soon  to  make  plans.  But  at  any  rate 
I'm  not  going  to  run  away  just  yet."  She  was  angry 
with  herself  because  she  felt  no  grief,  only  a  strange 
excitement  at  finding  herself  back  in  England  with 
a  prospect  that  could  not  be  delayed  of  seeing  Paul 
again.  Only  she  wanted  most  dreadfully  to  be  left 
alone,  and  Miss  Letty  showed  no  signs  of  leaving 
her.  She  found  herself  compelled  to  listen,  even  at 
this  late  hour  when  she  was  so  tired,  to  all  the  de- 
tails of  that  last  illness.  It  was  a  story  of  grim 
endurance,  of  unimaginable  physical  suffering,  and 
it  invested  that  strange,  grim  little  figure  lying  now 


224  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

so  quietly  asleep  in  its  coffin  with  something  of 
heroism.  Gillian  could  well  believe  in  that  uncon- 
quered,  valiant  fortitude.  It  corresponded  with  all 
her  previous  knowledge  of  her  aunt.  If  she  had 
been  a  hard  taskmaster,  rigid,  unpitying,  and  exact- 
ing, she  had  ever  imposed  upon  herself  the  same 
stern  discipline.  And  as  she  had  lived  so  she  had 
died.  Actuated  by  other  and  widely  different  stand- 
ards she  had  known  the  value  of  what  Ian  Frazer 
had  called  the  daily  drill  and  daily  discipline  in  time 
of  peace. 

The  funeral  took  place  at  the  end  of  the  week. 
Gillian,  supporting  her  weeping  aunt,  had  just  turned 
away  from  the  grave-side  when  she  became  conscious 
of  a  man  standing  near  her  with  bowed  uncovered 
head.  Her  eyes  met  his,  and  she  was  thankful  that 
the  thick  mourning  veil  she  was  wearing  concealed 
the  deep  flush  that  mounted  to  her  cheek  at  the 
sight  of  him. 

It  was  Paul  Pallant.  He  accompanied  her  and 
Miss  Stanway  to  the  carriage  and  opened  the  door 
for  them.  Then  he  said  quietly  to  Gillian : 

"When  may  I  come  and  see  you?" 

From  his  lips  the  words  sounded  more  like  a  de- 
mand than  a  request.  She  answered  coldly:  "This 
evening  if  you  like.  Come  about  six." 

He  lifted  his  hat  as  they  drove  away. 

"My  dear,  who  is  that  young  man?  He  seemed 
very  kind  and  attentive,"  said  poor  Miss  Letty, 
burying  her  face  in  a  black-edged  handkerchief  and 
blowing  her  nose  violently. 

"That  is  Cousin  Janet's  son — Paul  Pallant,"  said 
Gillian. 

She  was  angry  to  find  that  the  sudden  meeting 
had  made  her  tremble  in  every  limb.  She  had  be- 
lieved herself  to  be  perfectly  indifferent  to  Paul.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XIX 

PAUL  had  wandered  round  the  Royal  Crescent  and 
back  again  into  the  Circus,  waiting  with  ill-con- 
cealed impatience  for  the  hour  to  strike.  His  feet 
trod  restlessly  that  circular  pavement.  He  found 
himself  looking  up  at  the  great  solid  houses,  deep 
grey  in  colour,  for  the  Bath  stone  becomes  almost 
black  in  the  passing  of  years.  The  charming  frieze 
in  stone  moulding  that  decorated  every  house  with 
a  conventional  design  pleased  him.  He  remembered 
having  heard  somewhere  that  no  two  patterns  were 
alike  in  design.  In  the  centre  of  the  Circus  there 
was  a  round  turfed  space  planted  with  immense 
plane  trees.  Their  foliage  was  parched  and  dusty, 
and  the  grass  beneath  them  was  burnt  into  a  dry 
brown.  The  quiet  of  the  place,  broken  only  by  a 
rare  vehicle  passing  over  the  cobbled  stones  of  the 
roadway,  soothed  his  nerves.  He  was  longing  yet 
dreading  to  see  Gillian  again. 

July  had  come,  and  now  in  a  few  weeks  she  would 
be  free.  He  did  not  dare  hope  that  she  would  con- 
sent to  be  married  before  at  least  another  three 
months  had  passed;  he  felt  that  he  ought  scarcely 
to  desire  that  it  should  take  place  sooner,  but  he  did 
wish  to  obtain  some  definite  promise  from  her,  to 
establish  between  them  an  engagement.  Then  he 
would  return  home  and  inform  his  mother  of  the 
progress  of  events.  She  was  still  perfectly  in  ignor- 
ance of  his  devotion  to  Gillian,  indeed  he  had  felt 
that  it  would  be  useless  to  inform  her  of  it  until 
something  were  definitely  settled.  The  dregs  of  the 
cup  promised  to  be  bitter,  for  he  was  perfectly 
aware  of  her  views  on  the  subject.  He  knew,  too, 
that  after  the  divorce  his  mother  had  even  been 

225 


226  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

averse  to  the  continuance  of  Joan's  intimacy  with 
Gillian. 

But  Paul  had  inherited  his  mother's  obstinate 
nature.  Joan  was  amiably  weak,  as  their  father  had 
been — except  upon  the  subject  of  his  food — yield- 
ing almost  at  the  first  hint  of  opposition;  even  if 
she  ardently  desired  anything,  she  could  easily  be 
alarmed  into  a  show  of  submission  and  renunciation. 
Paul,  on  the  other  hand,  had,  even  as  a  child,  taken 
what  he  wanted  defiantly  and  fearlessly. 

Two  minutes  after  the  hour  he  turned  into  Brock 
Street,  with  head  thrown  back  and  lips  grimly  set. 
At  the  far  end  of  the  street  he  came  to  the  house 
which  from  time  immemorial  had  been  occupied  by 
the  Stanways.  He  had  already  passed  it  in  his  rest- 
less walk,  had  noted  its  exact  position,  had  even  re- 
garded its  dull  exterior  with  a  sense  of  wonder  that 
anything  so  perfectly  beautiful  as  Gillian  should 
have  emerged  from  such  an  unpromising  venue.  The 
little  grey  street  seemed  to  him  almost  sad  in  its 
sombre,  stolid  respectability.  His  heart  beat  more 
quickly  as  he  paused  for  a  moment  on  the  doorstep, 
he  seemed  now  to  have  approached  so  closely  to  the 
desire  of  his  heart  that  he  scarcely  dared  go  for- 
ward. Would  he  come  forth  this  evening  as  a  king 
among  men,  or  only  the  most  wretched  bankrupt  of 
fortune  in  the  world?  Suspense  showed  itself  in 
the  unimaginable  pallor  of  his  face,  in  the  smoulder- 
ing fires  that  blazed  in  his  eyes.  When  his  momen- 
tary hesitation  had  gone,  he  rang  the  bell  and  asked 
if  Mrs.  Driscoll  were  at  home  in  a  calm  firm  voice 
that  held  no  trace  of  emotion. 

He  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room,  a  double 
room  the  back  of  which  looked  out  on  to  the  Park 
that  offered  a  pleasing  and  shady  prospect  of  turf 
and  shrubs  and  trees.  The  window  was  open,  and 
Gillian  was  sitting  near  it,  She  was  alone  and 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  227 

appeared  to  be  unoccupied,  as  if  she  were  waiting 
for  him.  She  rose  to  meet  him,  pale,  languid,  as  if 
the  events  of  the  last  few  days  had  tried  her  a  good 
deal.  It  seemed  to  him  that  her  manner  as  she 
greeted  him  was  a  little  distant,  there  was  a  new 
aloofness  in  it.  It  was  as  if  she  were  tacitly  inti- 
mating to  him  that  if  he  so  wished  there  need  be  no 
reference  made  to  their  last  meeting.  As  she  had 
left  him  free  then,  so  he  was  to  feel  himself  free 
now.  She  might  have  known,  he  thought  with  bit- 
terness, that  his  very  seeking  of  her  precluded  the 
possibility  of  his  desiring  that  freedom. 

He  looked  at  her  closely.  The  beloved  face  is 
seldom  as  we  picture  it  in  absence;  it  would  almost 
seem  as  if  love  cruelly  deprived  the  inward  eye  of 
its  power  of  visualising  that  precious  and  elusive 
beauty.  Yes,  she  was  changed.  He  thought  she 
looked  sadder  than  ever — that  was  perhaps  on  ac- 
count of  the  deep  mourning  she  wore.  And  she  was 
much  more  assured;  she  had  the  manner  of  a  woman 
accustomed  to  complete  independence  of  thought 
and  action.  She  was  very  different  from  the  shy 
silent  girl  who  had  come  to  his  mother's  house  more 
than  four  years  ago,  and  who  had  so  quickly  fallen 
under  the  spell  of  Aylmer  Driscoll;  she  was  different 
even  from  the  broken  yet  defiant  woman  who  had 
gone  away  last  January  to  obtain  rest  and  peace  in 
a  new  environment.  He,  apprehensive  of  such 
change,  began  to  wonder  what  influences  had  pri- 
marily caused  it.  After  all  she  had  scarcely  lifted 
the  veil  at  all  from  the  happenings  of  those  six  past 
months. 

"It  was  very  kind  and  thoughtful  of  you,  Paul,  to 
come  to  poor  Aunt  Matty's  funeral,"  she  said;  "you 
know  I  didn't  get  here  in  time  to  see  her  alive." 

"We  hadn't  heard  that  she  was  worse,"  said 
Paul;  "it  was  a  great  surprise  to  us  to  see  her 


228  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

death  in  the  paper.  I'm  sure  you  must  feel  it  aw- 
fully." 

Gillian  made  no  reply.  She  looked  away  from 
him,  and  her  eyes  seemed  to  be  attentively  studying 
the  trees  and  the  green  sweep  of  sward  beyond,  the 
faint  lilac  outline  of  the  distant  hills. 

"I  knew,  of  course,  you  would  come  back  directly 
you  heard  of  it,"  said  Paul.  "I  felt  sure  that^I 
should  find  you  here."  His  voice  sounded  rough  in 
his  effort  not  to  betray  his  emotion.  "You've  been 
away  an  awful  age,  Till.  What  on  earth  kept  you 
so  long  out  there?  Did  Italy  offer  so  many  attrac- 
tions?" 

"I  disliked  the  thought  of  coming  back  even  now," 
she  said;  "but  that  had  little  or  nothing  to  do  with 
the  attractions  of  Italy." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  purposely  avoiding 
meeting  his  gaze.  Miles  and  miles  of  space  lay 
between  them  and  severed  them.  Once  he  had  kissed 
her — her  lips,  her  hands,  that  little  white  forehead 
of  hers  just  where  the  dark  hair  touched  it  so 
softly.  .  .  . 

Yet  the  words  had  to  be  spoken. 

"Dear  Jill,"  he  said  at  last,  "I've  come  to  ask  you 
to  stay  in  England — I  wanted  to  welcome  you  my- 
self. I'm  sure  you  must  guess  why  I  am  here.  I 
want  to  be  engaged  to  you — to  win  your  promise  to 
marry  me." 

He  stood  up  now ;  his  small  rather  delicate  figure 
tense  and  alert.  Gillian  turned  her  head  a  little  and 
watched  him  without  speaking.  He  represented  to 
her  many  things  of  which  she  had  need.  More 
than  ever  she  saw  in  him  the  man  who  would  always 
love  her,  obstinately,  faithfully,  tenderly.  A  man 
too  whom  she  could  love,  for  had  not  his  very  com- 
ing caused  her  pulse  to  beat  more  quickly?  She  saw 
in  him  security,  safety,  a  rock-like  reliability.  If 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  229 

she  married  him  she  would  no  longer  remain  sur  la 
branche,  without  any  abiding  place. 

"I  love  you,  dear  Jill,"  he  said  slowly,  and  his 
voice  trembled  a  little. 

"And  your  mother?"  she  said.  "What  would 
your  mother  say,  Paul?" 

"I'm  afraid  mothers  have  to  go  to  the  wall  a  little 
when  a  man  makes  up  his  mind  to  marry,"  he  said. 
"Of  course  she  won't  like  it — she  has  prejudices,  as 
you  yourself  once  told  me.  But  that  doesn't  matter. 
Naturally  I'd  like  everything  to  be  smooth,  but  we 
can  live  without  her  approval.  I  shall  tell  her — I 
want  to  tell  her — I'd  like  her  to  know." 

Gillian  relapsed  into  that  stra'nge  silence  of  hers 
as  if  she  were  meditating  deeply  upon  the  situation. 
But  in  reality  she  was  thinking  of  Giacomo  della 
Meldola,  and  contrasting  the  two  men  in  her  mind. 
The  brief  madness  of  her  engagement  which  had  cost 
her  so  many  tears  and  such  genuine  sorrow  and  dis- 
appointment, rose  before  her  accusingly.  She  had 
been  hurt  superficially  very  much  indeed;  her  heart 
as  well  as  her  pride  had  been  wounded.  But  the 
wound  had  never  cut  deeply.  She  had  known  Gia- 
como so  little  and  for  so  short  a  time.  Their  love 
had  seemed  almost  like  a  beautiful  dream  that  van- 
ished when  the  cold  light  of  dawn  fell  upon  it.  The 
headlong  speed  with  which  the  affair  had  been  con- 
ducted, the  breathless  excitement  of  it,  had  saved 
her.  It  was  over  almost  before  she  had  had  time  to 
realise  it  fully.  It  had  no  links  with  the  past ;  in  its 
brief  transit  it  had  struck  no  roots.  She  could  be 
glad  now  to  think  that  it  had  come  to  nothing.  Very 
glad  indeed  with  Paul  Pallant  there,  speaking  words 
of  love  that  throbbed  through  all  her  being.  It  was 
always  best  for  a  woman  to  marry  a  man  of  her  own 
country;  it  made  of  marriage  a  less  complicated 
affair. 


230  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

But  Paul  mistook  her  silence. 

"Of  course  if  you  feel  you  can  never  love  me,  Jill, 
I'll  go  away.  I'll  never  bother  you  again,"  he  said 
humbly. 

The  remembrance  of  Giacomo  had  left  her.  Ian 
Frazer's  words  seemed  to  echo  dully  across  the 
silence  that  followed.  How  absurd  to  wreck  one's 
life,  to  forfeit  a  chance  of  real  solid  happiness,  be- 
cause of  a  few  words  uttered  by  a  stranger!  It  was 
thus  she  reviewed  Ian  Frazer's  speech.  She  was 
not  going  to  permit  herself  to  be  influenced  by  it; 
she  was  not  going  to  think  now  of  that  hour,  which 
had  once  seemed  to  her  so  holy  and  so  sacred,  spent 
in  the  Lower  Church  at  Assisi.  .  .  .  She  was  not 
going  to  send  Paul  away  because  of  these  things  1 
Almost  there  was  a  touch  of  defiance  informing  her 
attitude  towards  him. 

"It  is  such  a  tremendous  question,"  she  said  at 
last.  "And  I  don't  want  to  injure  your  career,  Paul. 
Lots  of  people  think  just  as  your  mother  does.  We 
mustn't  forget  that.  And  if  I  marry  you  I  shall  be 
as  guilty  in  their  eyes  as — as  Aylmer!" 

"I  don't  care  what  people  say  or  think,"  said 
Paul  stubbornly;  "it  does  not  matter  to  me,  and  if 
you  love  me  it  cannot  matter  to  youl"  He  came 
over  and  knelt  down  near  her,  and  taking  her  hands 
in  his  held  them  closely  to  his  heart.  She  could  feel 
the  quick  but  steady  beating  of  Paul's  heart,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  in  that  moment  that  he  had  become 
indescribably  dear  to  her. 

"Oh,  my  dear — my  dear  Gillian,"  he  said,  in  a 
voice  that  shook  with  emotion. 

"Listen,"  said  Gillian  quietly,  "I  have  something 
to  say  to  you,  Paul.  When  you  hear  it  you  may  not 
wish  to  marry  me." 

He  looked  up  startled,  with  sudden  inquiry  in  his 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  231 

eyes.  Why  must  she  thus  spoil  that  beautiful  mo- 
ment? .  .  . 

"Why— what  on  earth  is  it,  Jill?" 

"When  I  was  in  Italy,"  she  continued  in  that  quiet 
level  voice  of  hers,  "I  was  engaged  to  be  married." 

"You?  .  .  .  Engaged!"    His  face  darkened. 

"Yes — to  an  Italian,"  she  said. 

Paul  was  silent.  The  colour  flooded  his  face.  He 
had  never  dreamed  of  such  a  contingency. 

"You  were  in  love  with  him?"  he  demanded 
fiercely. 

"Yes.  For  a  little  while  I  thought  I  was  very 
much  in  love  with  him.  I  was  in  love,  too,  with  the 
thought  of  shutting  the  door  upon  my  old  life  and 
everything  to  do  with  it — of  starting  quite  fresh 
under  new  conditions.  Can't  you  understand  it?" 

"Then  why  on  earth,"  he  said,  still  in  that  strange 
fierce  voice,  "didn't  you  marry  him — and  shut  the 
door?" 

"He  broke  off  the  engagement,"  answered  Gil- 
lian, and  a  little  of  that  past  shame  seemed  again  to 
envelop  her. 

"Broke  it  off?"    Paul  echoed  incredulously. 

"He  found  out  that  he  couldn't  marry  me.  He 
thought  I  was  a  widow — naturally  I  didn't  go  and 
tell  my  story  to  every  one  I  met.  But  I  was  always 
meaning  to  tell  him  the  truth,  only  I  was  afraid.  I 
knew  it  would  mean  losing  him,  Paul.  Then  some 
one  told  him  I  had  divorced  my  husband.  He  went 
away — I  never  saw  him  again.  Afterwards  his 
mother  came  to  explain." 

The  confession  seemed  to  plunge  her  once  more 
into  that  abyss  of  humiliation  which  she  had  known 
during  the  interview  with  Giacomo's  mother.  Surely 
Paul,  knowing  all  this,  would  have  no  further  desire 
to  make  her  his  wife. 

"Cur!"  said  Paul,  grinding  his  teeth. 


232  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"He  was  a  Catholic,"  pursued  Gillian  coldly,  "and 
Catholics  can't  marry  divorced  people.  I  didn't 
know  that  at  the  time;  I  only  thought  his  mother 
would  probably  disapprove  so  much  that  he  would 
have  to  give  me  up.  But  it  had  really  nothing  to  do 
with  his  mother.  He  broke  off  our  engagement  of 
his  own  will.  I  was  very  unhappy."  She  looked  at 
him  quite  steadily. 

"He  could  never  have  loved  you  at  all  1  If  he  had 
loved  you  he  would  have  gone  through  hell  for 
you  I" 

"Ah,  that's  just  what  he  couldn't  risk  doing,"  she 
said  softly. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Paul's  brain  was  bewil- 
dered by  the  unexpectedness  of  her  confession.  Then 
another  thought  struck  him,  and  its  touch  held 
poison. 

"But,  Jill,  if  you  loved  him  enough  to  promise  to 
marry  him — it  means  that  you  could  never  have 
loved  me?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  does.  But  I  loved  Giacomo  dif- 
ferently. He  was  so  young  and  eager  and  hand- 
some— like  a  beautiful  boy.  And  he  fell  in  love  with 
me  so  suddenly,  so  violently." 

Her  eyes  softened  at  the  remembrance  of  those 
idyllic  Roman  days.  How  far  away  they  appeared 
now;  how  far  removed  from  the  little  grey  house 
in  Brock  Street  where  love  was  again  approaching 
her  with  rainbow  wings!  .  .  . 

She  perceived  that  the  news  had  shocked  him 
deeply.  Yet  she  had  felt  compelled  to  tell  him  that 
during  the  interval  between  their  last  meeting  and 
this  she  had  given  her  love  to  another  man.  And  all 
the  time  Paul  had  been  waiting,  waiting  for  her 
return.  .  .  . 

"You  never  loved  me  then  at  all?"  he  said 
harshly. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  233 

"I  told  you — before  I  went  away — that  I  didn't 
love  you — that  I  didn't  want  to  marry  you,"  she 
said. 

"That  night — when  I  drove  home  with  you — I 
thought  you  had  begun  to  care  a  little  for  me  1  All 
the  time  you  were  gone  I  hoped  and  hoped.  ..." 

She  flushed  a  little  and  then  said  quickly,  "I  was 
sorry  for  you,  you  see.  You  seemed  so  miserable. 
It  meant  nothing — nothing  at  all.  I  was  lonely  and 
you  comforted  me.  And  I  was  glad  to  think  some 
one  still  cared  for  me  a  little.  I  can't  explain  it, 
Paul.  ..." 

But  he  was  thinking  of  those  remembered 
kisses.  .  .  . 

"You  had  definitely  promised  to  marry  this  man?" 
he  said,  and  his  voice  was  still  stern  and  cold. 

"Yes,  we  had  arranged  to  be  married  in  October. 
I  thought  that  would  give  me  time  to  come  back 
here  and  settle  up  things.  He  had  a  villa  near  Fras- 
cati — such  a  beautiful  place.  We  were  to  spend  our 
honeymoon  there." 

It  had  been  her  determination  to  tell  Paul  the 
whole  truth.  She  wondered  whether  it  would  make 
any  difference  to  his  love  for  her.  Perhaps  he  would 
think  her  a  weak  woman  of  facile  affections.  She 
would  like  to  have  known  then  what  was  passing 
in  his  mind. 

Jealousy  had  clutched  Paul's  heart  with  its  iron 
claws.  Joyfully  could  he  have  slain  this  unknown 
rival. 

"You'd  actually  fixed  the  date?"  he  said,  more 
than  ever  mystified.  "You'd  got  the  better  of  those 
scruples  you  always  served  up  for  my  benefit?"  His 
tone  was  indescribably  bitter. 

"Just  for  the  time,"  said  Gillian  still  coldly,  "but 
afterwards,  when  he  threw  me  over,  they  came  back 
with  renewed  force.  You  see,  I  learned  what  a 


234  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

strong  force  it  was  that  could  thus  separate  Giacomo 
from  me  when  we  were  so  happy,  when  we  loved 
each  other  so  much.  ..." 

"He  never  could  have  loved  you  1"  Paul  repeated. 

"Paul,  he  did  love  me.  But  to  him  the  marriage 
wouldn't  have  been  a  marriage.  In  the  eyes  of  his 
world  I  shouldn't  have  been  his  wife  at  all.  I  think 
it  was  for  my  sake  as  much  as  for  his  own  that  he 
broke  it  all  off."  The  sting  of  the  shame  touched 
her  anew.  "I  was  in  the  dust  for  the  second  time, 
Paul.  But  it  made  me  ask  myself  what  this  Church 
was  that  could  dominate  even  a  man's  love." 

"His  love  could  never  have  been  worth  any- 
thing at  all,"  said  Paul  indignantly.  "Do  you  think 
I  should  ever  have  let  anything  come  between  us, 
Gillian,  if  you  had  promised  to  be  my  wife?  Any- 
thing in  heaven  or  earth,  if  you  had  loved  me?" 
His  voice  softened  to  a  strange  deep  tenderness. 
"All  these  months  you  have  been  away,  my  thoughts 
have  been  full  of  you  by  day,  and  by  night  you 
were  always  in  my  dreams.  Why  weren't  you 
honest  with  me?  Why  didn't  you  write  and  tell 
me  that  you  were  in  love  with  this  Italian?" 

She  was  silent.  Again  he  observed  a  child-like 
perplexed  puckering  of  her  brow.  Yes,  she  was 
like  a  child  who  has  been  set  too  difficult  a  prob- 
lem. .  .  . 

"But  I  was  a  fool — I  ought  to  have  known,  when 
you  didn't  write!"  he  burst  forth,  a  dull  savage 
anger  in  his  tone. 

"It  lasted  such  a  little  time,  and  it  was  always 
an  absolute  secret.  Then  some  one  told  his  mother 
about  me,  and  everything  ended  abruptly.  But  in 
any  case  I  shouldn't  have  told  you  until  our  mar- 
riage was  about  to  take  place." 

Her  mind  visualised  with  a  strange  detailed  accu- 
racy the  twilit  shelter  of  those  ilex  woods  at  Fras- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  235 

cati  where  they  had  wandered  hand  in  hand,  day 
after  day,  amid  the  soft  shadows.  The  memory 
was  sharp  enough  to  evoke  pain. 

"Look  here,  Gillian !"  he  broke  in  abruptly  upon 
her  thoughts.  "I  don't  care  if  you  love  me  or  not. 
Marry  me,  and  I'll  spend  my  life  in  trying  to  make 
you  happy.  I'll  teach  you  to  forget  all  the  cruel 
past — all  the  things  that  have  hurt  you !"  He  came 
over  and  bending  down  put  his  arms  round  her  and 
drew  her  head  upon  his  shouder.  His  face  was 
very  close  to  hers;  he  leaned  nearer  to  her  and 
kissed  her. 

Gillian  made  no  effort  to  resist  his  embrace.  It 
comforted  and  consoled  her  to  find  him  still  un- 
changed, in  spite  of  all  she  had  just  told  him;  to 
know,  too,  that  across  the  months  of  separation 
he  loved  her  with  an  unchanging  love  and  fidelity. 
And  she  had  need  of  his  love.  Twice  love  had 
failed  her,  and  her  heart  was  wounded  and  bruised 
by  the  pain.  If  she  did  not  love  Paul,  at  least  she 
loved  his  love.  She  was  happy  and  at  peace. 

"Ah,  don't  make  me  love  you,  Paul,"  she  said  at 
last,  looking  up  at  him  with  tearful  yet  happy  eyes. 
"It  brings  me  la  guigne." 

"But  I  want  you  to  love  me,  darling."  Again  he 
kissed  her.  "We  must  be  married  very  soon." 

She  was  trembling  now;  her  eyes  were  bright 
with  tears. 

"Say  that  you  love  me,"  he  insisted. 

"I  love  you."  The  words  came  faintly,  he  could 
scarcely  hear  them. 

His  hands  strayed  delicately  over  her  hair. 

"And  you'll  marry  me?" 

"Oh,  Paul — you  must  wait  before  I  can  tell  you 
that!" 

Now  it  was  Ian  Frazer's  stern  fair  face  that  rose 
up  before  her,  accusing,  condemning. 


236  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"I'll  wait  as  long  as  you  like.  But  .  .  .  have 
pity  on  me,  Jill!" 

Why  was  she  thinking  of  Ian  Frazer  now?  Why 
did  his  face  come  like  a  troubling  memory  to  dis- 
turb her  happiness?  He  had  told  her  sharp,  un- 
forgettable truths.  Words  came  back  to  her  mind: 
"/  went  down  to  the  potter's  house  and  behold  he 
wrought  a  work  on  the  wheels.  And  the  vessel  that 
he  made  of  clay  was  marred  in  the  hand  of  the  pot- 
ter, so  he  made  it  again  another  vessel  as  seemed 
good  to  the  potter  to  make  it  .  .  . 

All  her  soul  was  in  revolt  now  against  that  threat- 
ened shaping.  Those  hard  lessons  he  had  taught 
her  were  by  no  means  forgotten,  but  she  flung  them 
deliberately  aside.  Yes,  she  would  be  Paul's  wife. 
She  loved  him  in  a  tender,  grateful,  half-sisterly 
fashion;  she  loved  his  devotion,  his  faithfulness. 
And  she  would  not  submit  to  being  defrauded  anew 
of  her  woman's  rightful  heritage  of  love  and  moth- 
erhood. As  if  to  set  a  seal  on  this  resolve  she  drew 
Paul's  face  gently  towards  her  and  kissed  him. 
Surely  there  could  be  nothing  wrong,  nothing  wicked, 
in  this  love.  .  .  . 

"You  won't  let  anything  come  between  us?  Any 
foolish,  insensate  scruples?"  he  said,  almost  as  if 
he  were  divining  her  thoughts.  "You  won't  let  any- 
thing part  us?" 

"Nothing — nothing,"  said  Gillian. 

He  released  her  slowly,  thoughtfully,  gazing  at 
the  little  colourless,  charming  face.  Yes,  she  was 
beautiful,  more  beautiful  than  ever,  and  there  was 
something  alluring  and  interesting,  too,  in  that  wist- 
ful appealing  look  of  hers.  He  kissed  her  jealously, 
remembering  that  Aylmer  and  Giacomo  had  once 
known  the  joys  of  her  caress. 

"Oh,  Jill — how  I  wish  you'd  never  been  mar- 
ried— never  been  engaged  to  any  one  else! 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  237 

"Instead  of  which  I've  been  engaged  twice  and 
married  once."  She  was  able  to  laugh  now  at  his 
tragic  tone. 

"And  did  you  really  love  them — those  other 
two?" 

"Yes — I'm  quite  sure  at  least  that  I  loved  Ayl- 
mer."  She  looked  at  him.  "Paul,  don't  think 
about  them.  I  mean  to  love  you  much,  much  more." 
She  laughed  in  a  soft  fashion  that  touched  him.  "I 
can  depend  on  you.  You'll  always  care — you'll 
never  leave  me."  Something  of  the  pain  of  those 
past  desertions  informed  her  speech. 

Paul  lifted  her  hands  to  his  lips  and  kissed  them 
almost  reverently. 

"Yes,  you  can  depend  upon  me,"  he  said  slowly. 
"And,  Jill — we  are  engaged  now,  aren't  we?  You 
will  marry  me  when  you  are  free?" 

He  was  insistent,  as  if  still  fearful  of  losing  her. 

"Would  you  wait  until  next  year?  Paul — I'd  so 
much  rather  not  marry  for  a  whole  year  after  the 
divorce." 

"If  I  must,  I  must,"  he  said;  "but  why  on  earth 
do  you  want  to  wait?" 

"Because  I'm  quite  sure  it's  wiser,  Paul." 

"But  harder."     His  mouth  was  grim. 

"After  all,  it's  only  a  few  months." 

"It  shall  be  as  you  wish,"  he  said. 

She  felt  tranquilly  happy.  She  was  forgetting 
Ian  Frazer  with  his  stern  face  and  voice.  She 
would  forget  him.  She  would  remember  only  that 
Paul  loved  her,  and  that  she  was  learning  to  love 
him,  too.  There  was  defiance  in  her  very  surrender, 
in  her  passive  acceptance  of  this  proffered  destiny. 
Happiness  should  not  for  a  third  time  elude  her. 

"I'm  so  glad  I  came  back,  Paul,"  she  said  at  last. 

"Are  you?    So  am  I." 

"Isn't  it  strange — I  find  it  so  difficult  to  envisage 


238  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

the  future?  I  can't  imagine  myself  just  simply  a 
happy  woman  living  a  commonplace  ordinary  life." 
She  looked  at  him  wistfully.  "Reassure  me,  Paul. 
Tell  me  I  shall  be  just  that.  ..." 

"You  shall  be  happy,"  he  said,  "if  it's  in  my  power 
to  make  you  so.  As  for  a  commonplace  ordinary 
life — isn't  that  asking  rather  a  lot  of  the  high 
gods?" 

"I  suppose  it  is.  *  .   . " 

She  was  back  there  in  the  soft  grey  duskiness,  the 
twilight  gloom  of  San  Francesco,  kneeling  in  the 
shadows  and  praying  for  light — the  light  which 
when  it  came  had  been  too  sharp  for  her  vision, 
the  light  that  had  burnt  her,  threatening  to  con- 
sume. She  would  only  pray  for  little  humble  things 
in  the  future;  the  simplest  joys  that  the  poorest 
labourer's  wife  may  know.  .  .  . 

Yet  Ian  Frazer  would  think  she  had  no  right  to 
pray  at  all,  because  she  had  wilfully  separated  her- 
self from  God.  She  struggled  to  free  herself  from 
the  tyranny  of  his  teaching. 

"Paul — you  must  teach  me  to  forget  everything. 
I'm  young  and  I  want  to  make  a  fresh  start.  ..." 

"We  will  make  it  together — next  January,"  said 
Paul 


CHAPTER  XX 

LADY  PALLANT  was  sitting  at  her  bureau  writing 
letters  when  her  son  walked  unceremoniously 
into  her  sanctum  a  day  or  two  later.  She  did  not 
know  he  was  in  town,  and  therefore  was  not  ex- 
pecting a  visit  from  him.  He  had  given  no  notice 
of  his  coming,  which  was  also  unusual.  And  just 
because  it  was  unusual,  a  slight  slackening  of  the 
small  courtesies  she  inexorably  exacted  from  her 
grown-up  son  and  daughter,  she  was  displeased  and 
felt,  in  addition,  a  vague,  formless  anxiety.  This 
expressed  itself  in  the  slight  irritation  with  which 
she  now  accosted  him. 

"Why,  Paul,  what  on  earth  are  you  doing  in 
town?" 

Paul  stooped  and  kissed  her,  nervously,  perfunc- 
torily. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you  on  very  particular  busi- 
ness," he  said  shortly. 

Now  that  he  was  face  to  face  with  his  mother, 
a  curious  nervousness  possessed  him,  and  all  his 
careful  preparation  seemed  to  slip  away  from  him. 
It  was  not  going  to  be  easy,  and  he  could  remember 
none  of  the  tactful  prefaces  that  he  had  endeav- 
oured to  compose  and  memorise  in  the  train  on  his 
way  to  town.  He  looked  at  her  desfiantly  and 
said: 

"I've  come,  in  fact,  to  tell  you  that  I'm  engaged 
to  Gillian  Driscoll." 

Lady  Pallant  was  far  too  much  astonished  to 
speak.  She  felt  for  the  moment  as  if  she  had  been 
the  victim  of  some  physical  violence.  She  was 
brought  as  if  involuntarily  to  her  feet.  She  tow- 
ered above  her  son,  who  remained  standing  in  front 
of  her,  silent  and  unmoving. 

239 


240  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

When  at  last  the  words  came,  they  were  passion- 
ate, tempestuous. 

"You  shall  not  marry  her.  I  utterly  refuse  to 
allow  such  a  disgraceful  thing!  When  did  you  see 
her  again?" 

"I  went  down  to  Bath  for  Miss  Stanway's 
funeral,  as  you  know.  Gillian  was  there.  But  it's 
nothing  new,  mother.  I've  been  in  love  with  Jill 
since  I  was  a  boy.  I  asked  her  to  marry  me  before 
she  went  to  Rome  in  the  spring.  She  refused  me 
then.  She  has  accepted  me  now." 

There  was  a  dull  triumph  in  his  voice  as  of  a 
man  who,  after  long  and  hopeless  waiting,  has  sud- 
denly attained  his  heart's  desire.  His  dark  eyes 
blazed  with  excitement. 

"You  shall  not  marry  her,"  Lady  Pallant  re- 
peated; "if  you  disobey  me  in  this,  you  shall  never 
enter  my  house  again.  And  I  will  never  receive 
Mrs.  Driscoll!" 

"That  must  be,  of  course,  as  you  wish,  mother," 
said  Paul,  with  weary  indifference.  "I  really  don't 
care  much  what  happens  as  long  as  I  can  marry 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Paul,"  said  his  mother  sharply. 
"You  do  care.  It  will  injure  your  career — your  so- 
cial position.  And  in  the  future  it  will  make  a 
great  difference  to  you  in  other  ways." 

"I  don't  care  about  money,  if  you  mean  that.  Nor 
does  Gillian.  Besides,  she's  got  heaps." 

"She  is  a  false  intriguing  woman.  I  wish  I  had 
never  had  her  in  my  house.  She  is  making  a  fool 
of  you,  Paul."  Her  voice  rose  in  shrill  crescendo. 
"You  may  depend  this  is  what  she's  been  aiming 
at  all  the  time!" 

Paul  reddened.  "I  must  ask  you  not  to  call  her 
names,"  he  said,  "or  I  shall  go  out  of  this  house 
and  never  enter  it  again."  He  set  his  lips.  The 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  241 

two  faces  were  almost  oddly  alike  at  that  moment, 
and  both  were  grim  with  determination.  UI  am 
going  to  marry  her.  And  she  shall  go  nowhere 
where  she  is  not  honourably  received  and  wel- 
comed." 

"She  won't  be  either  honoured  or  welcomed 
here,"  said  Lady  Pallant.  "You  know  what  I  think 
about  divorced  people  remarrying.  Of  course  she 
wants  to  reinstate  herself.  She  doesn't  care  for  you 
the  least  bit  in  the  world." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.     Then: 

"I'm  very  sorry,  of  course,  you  should  take  it 
like  this.  But  as  I  said  before  it  makes  no  earthly 
difference  to  our  engagement.  I  only  wish  she 
would  consent  to  being  married  next  month,  and 
get  the  business  over." 

"Perhaps  you  are  not  aware  that  Gillian  got  her- 
self talked  about — and  very  disagreeably  talked 
about — with  young  Marchese  della  Meldola  in 
Rome  this  spring?"  said  Lady  Pallant,  bracing  her- 
self for  a  counter-attack. 

Paul  winced.  He  had  never  heard  the  surname 
of  his  Italian  rival  before.  It  had  never  occurred 
to  him  to  ask  for  information  on  the  point,  but 
now  the  very  sound  of  it,  its  soft  musical  sound, 
filled  him  with  a  fierce  destroying  jealousy  that  made 
his  heart  sink  and  his  throat  close  up. 

"Oh,  she's  told  me  all  about  that  foolish  affair  I" 
he  said,  trying  to  speak  lightly. 

He  smiled,  fearing  lest  she  might  perceive  his 
wound.  But  Lady  Pallant  knew  her  son  too  well 
to  be  deceived. 

"He  threw  her  over  directly  he  knew  that  she  had 
a  husband  living — a  fact  which  she  never  seems  to 
have  mentioned  to  him!  She  was  seen  everywhere 
with  him — was  out  in  his  car  morning,  noon,  and 
night  1" 


242  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

Paul  wondered  idly  how  she  had  obtained  such 
exact  information.  It  was  almost  as  if  she  had 
purposely  had  Gillian's  doings  watched.  .  .  . 

He  said  abruptly:  "She  was  free  to  do  as  she 
chose.  If  she  made  mistakes,  we  must  remember 
that  she  is  still  very  young — hardly  older  than  Joan. 
I  have  perfect  confidence  in  her  discretion  myself." 

Oh,  why  had  she  permitted  this  man  to  come 
between  them?  Why  had  she  consented  to  this 
engagement  so  quickly,  so  ill-advisedly?  He  felt 
through  all  his  being  the  bitter  humiliation  to  which 
she  had  been  subjected  by  the  della  Meldola  family. 

"I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,"  said  Lady  Pallant 
dryly;  "I  hope  you  may  always  retain  this  confi- 
dence in  Gillian,  for  you  will  not  have  much  else 
to  console  you.  But  all  men  would  not  be  so  com- 
placent. You  will  change,  of  course — the  Pallants 
always  trample  on  their  wives — I  have  no  doubt 
when  you  are  married  you  will  also  display  this 
pleasing  idiosyncrasy."  It  gave  her  a  sense  almost 
of  pleasure  to  feel  that  this  trampling  awaited  Gil- 
lian. "At  any  rate  I  am  sure  you  will  have  every 
excuse  for  doing  so.  Women  like  Mrs.  Driscoll 
deserve  all  they  get." 

Paul  flushed.  His  temper  was  stirring.  Her  in- 
nuendoes pierced  him  like  knives.  There  was  a 
studied  insult  in  every  one  of  her  intemperate  words. 

"Of  course  if  you  think  her  worth  the  sacrificev 
marry  her!  I  shall  simply  wash  my  hands  of  an 
undutiful  son.  You  must  choose  between  us." 

Lady  Pallant's  face  had  grown  dark  red  with 
rage. 

"I  have  already  chosen,"  said  Paul  firmly.  "I'm 
never  going  to  give  her  up.  It's  been  difficult 
enough  to  win  her  consent."  He  set  his  lips. 

Lady  Pallant  loved  her  son,  and  his  words  pierced 
her  to  the  heart.  She  had  always  in  secret  loved 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  243 

him  far  better  than  Joan.  He  was  in  many  ways 
so  much  more  like  herself. 

"From  the  day  you  marry  her  you  shall 
never  set  foot  inside  my  house.  Until  then,  I  sup- 
pose I  must  receive  you.  But  I  utterly  refuse  to 
receive  Mrs.  Driscoll.  I  hope  you  understand  the 
position." 

"Perfectly,"  said  Paul.     His  eyes  narrowed. 

"I  shall  not  permit  Joan  to  see  her,  either." 

"Very  well,  mother,"  he  said.  He  was  too  proud 
to  make  any  entreaty.  His  small  slight  figure  was 
curiously  erect  and  tense. 

"I  suppose  Gillian  accepted  you  now  because  she 
had  failed  elsewhere,"  she  pursued  with  the  piti- 
lessness  of  a  woman  determined  to  wound;  "she 
can't  care  for  you  at  all — she  wants  only  what  you 
can  give  her — money  and  a  home.  I  wonder  you 
haven't  more  pride,  when  you  remember  how  she 
has  spent  the  interval  since  her  divorce!" 

"You  shall  not  insult  her!"  His  voice  was 
scarcely  raised,  the  words  came  cold  and  deter- 
mined. "Remember  that  I  love  her — that  you  are 
speaking  of  my  future  wife!" 

"You  will  find  lots  of  people  quite  ready  to  criti- 
cise Mrs.  Driscoll,"  she  reminded  him  dryly. 

"Not  in  my  hearing,"  he  said;  "never  to  me." 

Lady  Pallant,  with  nervous  fingers,  tore  up  an 
envelope  which  was  lying  on  the  table,  and  flung 
the  pieces  into  the  waste-paper  basket.  The  little 
action  was  significant,  in  that  it  betrayed  her  exas- 
peration and  agitation. 

"Such  a  marriage  which  isn't  a  marriage  at  all," 
continued  Lady  Pallant,  "can  only  spell  disaster 
for  you.  And  she  has  no  right  to  sacrifice  you — 
to  allow  you  to  act  directly  contrary  to  my  wishes. 
She  might  at  least  have  the  grace  to  remember 
what  she  has  owed  to  me  in  the  past." 


244  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"You  mean  her  marriage  to  Aylmer  Driscoll?" 
said  Paul  bitterly;  "if  so  she  had  better  forget  all 
about  it!" 

Before  she  had  time  to  reply,  the  door  opened  and 
Joan  came  into  the  room.  She  looked  willowy  and 
slender  in  a  soft  white  lace  dress;  on  her  head  was 
a  little  blue  hat  that  matched  her  eyes.  She  looked 
fresh,  dainty,  and  pretty,  and  rather  self-conscious. 
She  was  going  to  meet  Captain  Grant  in  the  Park. 

"Why,  Paul,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

She  went  up  to  him  and  kissed  him.  Paul  suf- 
fered the  embrace,  but  he  did  not  attempt  to  return 
it.  He  felt  Joan's  entry  to  be  an  intrusion,  and  her 
trailing  soft  manner  irritated  him.  It  was  such  a 
bad  imitation  of  Gillian!  .  .  . 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Joan.  She  looked 
from  her  mother's  hectic  and  agitated  countenance 
to  Paul's  white  face  that  seemed  to  betray  no  emo- 
tion at  all.  Only  his  unusual  pallor  to-day  was 
accentuated.  Joan  was  perplexed.  "What  has  hap- 
pened?" she  said,  rather  persistently. 

"I  won't  have  Joan  know!"  said  Lady  Pallant 
furiously. 

"She'd  better  be  told,"  said  Paul  tranquilly; 
"she'll  have  to  know  sooner  or  later." 

"Leave  the  room  at  once,  Joan,"  said  her  mother. 
"Do  you  hear  me?" 

She  moved  a  step  towards  her,  almost  threaten- 
ingly. Joan  turned  quickly  towards  the  door. 

"Don't  go,  Jo,"  said  Paul,  who  was  now  almost 
beside  himself  with  suppressed  anger.  He  seized 
her  arm  and  held  it  as  if  in  a  vice.  "I  mean  you 
to  hear.  Don't  be  a  little  fool!"  as  Joan  gave  a 
cry  of  pain,  "I'm  not  going  to  hurt  you.  You  cry 
more  easily  than  any  baby,"  he  continued  in  a  tone 
of  disgust,  as  Joan's  facile  tears  began  to  flow, 
though  more  from  terror  than  pain. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  245 

"Let  her  go  at  once,  Paul.  I  forbid  you  to  tell 
her!"  said  Lady  Pallant. 

His  grip  on  his  sister's  arm  tightened.  She 
moaned,  "Oh,  do  please  let  me  go,  Paul.  You're 
hurting  me.  .  .  .  Let  me  go.  .  .  .'" 

"I  won't  hurt  you  if  you'll  stand  still  and  not 
struggle  in  that  insane  way!"  he  said  impatiently. 

Joan  was  trembling  and  weeping  with  fear.  She 
ceased  to  struggle,  for  his  clutch  was  bruising  her 
arm  through  the  thin  sleeve.  She  would  soon  be 
too  dishevelled,  too  disfigured  with  crying,  to  go 
and  meet  Captain  Grant.  Paul's  white  face,  with 
its  blazing  eyes,  were  close  to  hers;  she  felt  that  he 
was  mocking  at  her,  as  he  had  done  when  they  were 
both  children,  for  her  deplorable  lack  of  pluck  and 
spirit. 

"Listen,  Jo.  I'm  going  to  marry  Jill  Driscoll — 
that's  what  all  the  row's  about!  Mother's  been 
saying  things  against  her.  She  is  never  to  be  al- 
lowed inside  the  house  again,  nor  shall  I  be  when 
I  have  married  her."  He  pelted  out  the  words. 

"You?  Jill?  Oh,  Paul.  ..."  Long  as  she 
had  jealously  suspected  her  brother's  attachment  to 
Mrs.  Driscoll,  she  had  never  for  a  moment  enter- 
tained the  idea  that  Gillian  could  possibly  return 
it.  "Do  you  mean  that  she  cares  for  you,  Paul?" 

The  doubt  in  her  voice  was  unflattering;  she 
seemed  to  suggest,  as  his  mother  had  done,  that 
Gillian  had  promised  to  marry  him  from  some 
worldly  motive.  And  had  she  not  all  along  shown 
hesitation?  It  was  because  there  was  on  the  face 
of  it  so  much  to  support  their  theory  that  Paul 
actually  flinched  at  his  sister's  words.  He  felt 
he  did  not  care  now  whether  he  hurt  her  or  not. 

"I  imagine  she  does,"  he  answered  dryly,  "as 
she's  promised  to  marry  me.  But  when  she  knows 


246  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

it  will  mean  giving  up  the  charms  of  your  delightful 
society  for  ever,  my  dear  Jo !" 

It  was  Joan's  turn  to  flinch. 

"When  did  you  see  her,  Paul?  When  did  she 
come  back  to  England?"  Joan's  voice  betrayed 
signs  of  distress. 

"I  saw  her  in  Bath.  She  had  very  properly  re- 
turned for  her  aunt's  funeral." 

"When  is  she  coming  to  town?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Paul.  "But  it  can't  affect 
you — you  won't  be  allowed  to  see  her.  She's  taboo 
here!" 

"Yes — you  must  please  understand  that,  Joan," 
said  Lady  Pallant  in  a  harsh  commanding  tone. 
"For  the  future  you  are  not  to  see  or  correspond 
with  Mrs.  Driscoll.  As  she  is  bent  on  ruining 
your  brother's  life,  I  forbid  any  intercourse  between 
you!" 

"Oh,  mother!"  Joan's  tears  flowed  afresh.  "Oh, 
you  can't  mean  that!  Why,  I've  been  looking  for- 
ward so  to  seeing  dear  Jill  again!" 

"And  when  we're  married  you  won't  see  or  hear 
from  dear  Paul  either."  He  mimicked  her  almost 
savagely.  But  he  released  his  hold  on  her  arm, 
and  giving  her  a  little  push,  said: 

"There,  you  can  go!  Go  up  and  cry  in  your 
room !" 

Joan  went  sobbing  towards  the  door.  She  felt 
as  if  she  had  been  plunged  suddenly  and  without 
warning  into  the  midst  of  a  most  appalling  night- 
mare. At  the  door  she  paused  for  a  moment,  and 
then  turning  she  ran  back  to  Paul  crying,  as  she 
tried  unsuccessfully  to  kiss  him, 

"Oh,  I  shall  lose  you  both — I  shall  lose  you 
both!" 

There  was  anguish  in  her  tone. 


VHE  ROXTER'S  HOUSE  247 

"There — for  goodness'  sake  don't  slobber  me," 
said  Paul,  pushing  her  away  not  unkindly. 

When  the  door  closed  upon  Joan,  Lady  Pallant 
sank  exhausted  into  a  chair.  Paul  still  stood  there 
in  the  same  inflexible  attitude. 

"Is  this  your  last  word,  mother?"  he  said  coldly. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  harshly.  "You  have  be- 
haved disgracefully,  you  have  shown  yourself  to  be 
a  most  undutiful  son.  I  will  never  receive  this 
woman  who  has  entrapped  you.  I  will  never  ac- 
knowledge her.  I  have  suspected  the  existence  of 
an  understanding  between  you  ever  since  she  dined 
here  that  night  last  winter  and  you  drove  back  with 
her.  You  have  been  a  weak  fool,  Paul,  to  allow 
yourself  to  be  caught  by  an  artful,  designing 


woman." 


Paul,  without  replying,  moved  to  the  door, 
opened  it  and  left  the  room  noiselessly.  He  went 
downstairs  and  straight  out  of  the  house.  Joan 
from  her  bedroom  window  watched  him  as  he  went 
down  the  street,  his  small  slight  soldierly  figure 
erect  and  upright.  At  the  sight  of  him  her  tears 
flowed  afresh.  She  had  given  up  all  thought  of 
keeping  her  appointment  with  Captain  Grant. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

AUNT  LETTY  was  a  little  uncertain  at  first  how 
to  treat  the  matter  of  Gillian's  engagement, 
the  announcement  of  which  was  conveyed  to  her  as 
a  profound  secret  that  same  evening,  after  Paul  had 
reluctantly  left  the  house  in  Brock  Street.  It  was 
on  occasions  such  as  these,  when  unable  to  decide 
for  herself  what  attitude  she  ought  to  adopt,  that 
she  sorely  missed  the  firm  but  guiding  hand  of  Miss 
Matty.  Very  deeply  and  sincerely  did  Miss  Letty 
mourn  the  lack  of  that  restraining  hand.  She  had 
too  long  been  as  a  slave  to  a  despot  to  find  any  solace 
in  the  prospect  of  freedom  and  liberty. 

She  could,  however,  remember  with  some  con- 
solation a  discussion  they  had  had  with  Mr.  Davis, 
the  vicar  of  the  church  to  which  the  sisters  Stanway 
always  migrated  on  Sunday,  although  it  was  at  a 
most  inconvenient  distance  from  Brock  Street,  just 
after  Gillian  had  obtained  a  divorce.  He  had  held 
what  seemed  to  them  the  very  just  view  that  Gillian 
being  perfectly  innocent  had  every  right  to  marry 
again  should  occasion  present  itself.  Mr.  Davis  had 
even  laughingly  offered  to  perform  the  ceremony 
should  it  be  found  convenient  to  have  it  in  Bath. 
Remembering  this,  Miss  Letty  was  able  conscien- 
tiously though  timidly  to  offer  her  congratulations 
to  Gillian,  only  protesting  that  it  was  "perhaps  a 
little  soon  for  her  to  think  of  marrying  again."  Did 
not  widows  invariably  wait  a  year  to  satisfy  les  con- 
venances? She  thought  Paul  had  shown  almost  a 
want  of  delicacy  in  approaching  Gillian  so  soon — 
and  on  the  very  day  of  darling  Matty's  funeral  too 
.  .  .  before  even  that  dreadful  decree  had  been 
made  absolute. 

"It  won't  be  till  January  in  any  case,"  said  Gil- 
248 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  249 

lian,  who  had  been  dreading  a  sentimental  outburst 
and  almost  welcomed  the  mild  reproof  that  had 
been  offered  instead.  "And  I  shall  probably  go 
abroad  again  in  the  interval,  as  we  want  to  keep 
it  a  secret  for  the  present  so  as  to  avoid  gossip." 

"Oh,  I  hoped  you  would  stay  with  me  for  a 
little,"  said  Aunt  Letty.  "You  see,  I've  never  been 
alone,  and  I  shall  miss  dear  Matty  so  sorely." 

Gillian  stretched  out  her  little  white  hand  and 
touched  Miss  Letty's  wrinkled  yellow  one. 

"Oh  well,  I  shan't  leave  you  I  hope  for  a  week 
or  two.  I  wish  you  would  go  away  for  a  change 
yourself,  Aunt  Letty.  You  must  be  sick  of  being 
always  here,  aren't  you?" 

Miss  Letty  looked  mildly  shocked. 

"My  dear  Gillian — I  should  not  dream  of  going 
away  now.  I  have  all  dear  Matty's  papers  to  go 
through  and  a  hundred  things  to  arrange.  And 
I  am  never  so  comfortable  when  I  am  away  as  I 
am  at  home.  And  now  Matty's  gone  there's  no 
one  else  to  look  after  things.  .  .  ." 

She  glanced  reproachfully  at  Gillian. 

"And  when  you  are  married  I  hope  you  will  settle 
down  and  not  always  be  rushing  off  abroad.  Dear 
Matty  used  to  say  that  this  deplorable  restlessness 
was  one  of  the  curses  of  the  day !  A  woman's  place 
is  in  her  home.  I  am  sure  Mr.  Pallant  will  tell 
you  the  same  thing." 

She  evidently  considered  that  she  had  inherited 
from  her  sister  the  right  to  give  Gillian  good  advice 
and  counsel.  In  the  eyes  of  Miss  Letty,  Gillian 
was  still  the  little  girl  they  had  brought  up  almost 
from  babyhood.  And  as  a  little  girl  she  had  re- 
quired a  good  deal  of  very  firm  guidance  at  the 
hands  of  Miss  Matty.  She  had  by  no  means  always 
been  easy  to  manage,  and  it  was  quite  possible  that 
she  still  required  advice,  for  she  was  in  a  very 


250  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

lonely  position.  Gillian  accepted  the  counsel  with- 
out remonstrance.  She  wondered  idly  if  she  had 
always  found  her  aunts  so  trying  in  the  old  days 
when  her  home  had  been  with  them.  But  memory 
did  not  serve  her  too  well.  She  could  only  recall  that 
she  had  been  a  little  afraid  of  Aunt  Matty,  and 
that  she  had  looked  to  Aunt  Letty  for  sympathy 
and  comfort  when  the  tyranny  of  the  elder  Miss 
Stanway  had  been  more  than  usually  severe.  Every- 
thing belonging  to  that  period  seemed  to  form  part 
of  another  life;  she  could  not  reconstruct  it  even 
in  imagination. 

"I  dare  say  as  you  are  engaged  to  her  son  you 
will  be  going  up  to  stay  with  Janet  soon,"  said 
Miss  Letty,  encouraged  by  the  success  of  her  mild 
rebuke  since  it  had  provoked  no  answer. 

"Oh,  that  would  be  very  unlikely,"  said  Gillian 
with  decision.  "Paul  knows  exactly  what  his  mother's 
views  on  the  subject  are.  I  don't  expect  she  will 
even  receive  me."  Two  pink  spots  showed  in  her 
cheeks.  Yes,  the  very  first  snub  would  undoubtedly 
emanate  from  Lady  Pallant,  and  all  her  little  world 
would  speedily  follow  suit. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  how  shocking!"  exclaimed  Miss 
Letty.  "I  hardly  think  you  ought  to  be  a  party  to 
that  young  man  disobeying  his  mother — going 
against  her  wishes — in  such  an  important  matter  as 
his  marriage!" 

Miss  Letty  was  genuinely  disturbed.  She  began 
even  to  doubt  gravely  the  comfortable  reassurances 
offered  by  the  Rev.  Josiah  Davis. 

"I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  it  would  be  right  for  you 
to  marry  him  under  the  circumstances,  my  dear  Gil- 
lian," she  added. 

"Paul  has  quite  made  up  his  mind  to  go  against 
his  mother  if  she  opposes  our  marriage.  He  will  be 
very  sorry,  of  course,  but  it  can't  be  helped."  Her 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  251 

face  hardened  a  little.  "Don't  let  us  talk  about  it, 
Aunt  Letty.  It  will  be  quite  disagreeable  enough 
when  the  time  comes,  and  I  am  so  tired  of  disagree- 
able situations.  I  seem  to  have  had  nothing  else  for 
months  past." 

"But  it  might  be  your  duty  to  break  off  your  en- 
gagement," said  Miss  Letty,  who  now  definitely  felt 
that  the  mantle  of  her  elder  sister  had  fallen  upon 
her.  She  spoke  with  quite  unusual  decision,  for  she 
felt  convinced  that  it  was  thus  dear  Matty  would 
have  spoken  under  the  circumstances.  And  then,  of 
course,  dear  Matty,  who  had  had  such  courage, 
would  have  sent  for  Paul  and  remonstrated  with 
him,  and  given  him  a  liberal  application  of  the  First 
Commandment  with  Promise. 

"I'm  not  going  to  break  off  my  engagement,"  said 
Gillian  coldly. 

"I  feel  somehow  as  if  the  marriage  wouldn't  be 
blessed  unless  Janet  approved,"  murmured  Miss 
Letty. 

Gillian  rose  from  her  seat. 

"I'm  tired,  Aunt  Letty.  I  find  love-affairs  dread- 
fully fatiguing.  I  think  I  will  go  up  to  my  room 
if  you  will  excuse  me."  She  stooped  and  kissed 
her  aunt's  withered  cheek  exactly  as  she  had  done 
when  she  was  a  little  girl.  Almost  instinctively  she 
turned  towards  the  chair  which  had  always  been 
occupied  by  the  grim  and  angular  form  of  Martha 
Stanway,  as  if  to  bestow  upon  her  the  conventional 
good-night  embrace. 

She  went  upstairs,  feeling  strangely  depressed. 
All  sense  of  elation  had  curiously  enough  left  her, 
and  she  felt  almost  too  tired  to  experience  any  satis- 
faction in  her  engagement.  She  thought  that  she 
hated  Brock  Street;  it  was  so  dull,  so  narrow.  And 
Aunt  Letty  had  irritated  her  to-night. 

She  slept  badly,  tossing  from  side  to  side.     She 


252  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

could  remember  how  she  had  lain  awake  the  first 
night  after  her  engagement  to  Aylmer,  grudging 
the  hours  to  sleep  that  could  be  so  much  more  profit- 
ably employed  in  thinking  of  him  and  recalling  his 
tender  words,  his  kisses.  No  emotion  of  the  kind 
filled  her  heart  now.  She  was  almost  glad  to  think 
that  Paul  was  obliged  to  leave  Bath  by  a  night  train 
in  order  to  return  to  Aldershot.  She  would  not 
have  to  see  him  again  just  yet — not  in  fact  until 
he  had  had  that  momentous  interview  with  his 
mother.  Towards  morning  she  fell  asleep,  and  she 
did  not  wake  until  the  maid  brought  in  her  tea 
with  some  letters  lying  on  the  tray.  On  the  top 
envelope  there  was  an  Italian  stamp.  She  took  it 
up  curiously  and  saw  that  the  address  was  written 
in  Ian  Frazer's  writing;  it  had  been  forwarded  from 
the  hotel  at  Assisi. 

Her  first  feeling  was  one  of  anger  that  he  should 
have  thus  written  to  her.  She  drank  her  tea  and 
looked  at  all  her  other  letters  before  she  opened  his. 
It  was  not  very  long  and  began  by  expressing  a  con- 
ventional regret  that  he  had  not  seen  her  before 
her  sudden  departure.  He  had  called  at  the  hotel 
that  same  day  and  found  that  she  had  gone.  At 
the  end  he  added:  "I  was  sorry  that  you  had  to 
leave  like  this.  It  struck  me  once  or  twice  lately 
that  Assisi  was  beginning  to  teach  you  certain  things. 
I  know  that  this  is  one  of  the  places  of  the  world 
where  the  amosphere  is  most  likely  to  impress  very 
profoundly  a  sensitive  person.  How  far  you  have 
progressed  I  do  not  know,  but  I  hope  that  now  you 
will  be  less  inclined  to  take  any  definite  dangerous 
step  that  might  imperil  your  spiritual  future.  For 
this  I  shall  always  pray.  ..." 

Any  definite  dangerous  step?  .  ..-  .  As  she  read 
those  words  Gillian  let  the  letter  drop  from  her 
hand.  It  was  almost  terrible  that  she  should  have 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  253 

had  to  read  them  now,  when  only  a  few  hours  ago 
she  had  promised  to  take  just  the  step  that  Ian 
Frazer  had  feared.  A  whole  flood  of  memories 
seemed  to  overwhelm  and  possess  her  mind.  She 
remembered  that  long  walk  she  had  taken  with  Ian 
when  he  had  spoken  to  her  with  such  passionate 
earnestness.  She  remembered,  too,  that  powerfully 
held  by  the  spell  of  his  words  she  had  gone  into  the 
Lower  Church  to  pray.  All  this  time  she  had  tried 
to  put  that  remembrance  resolutely  from  her  mind, 
but  now  it  was  not  possible  to  do  so  any  more.  It 
was  too  strong,  it  would  not  be  gainsaid;  for  the 
moment  it  held  her  in  its  grip.  She  remembered 
how  that  strange  and  almost  blinding  illumination 
had  fallen  upon  her,  overwhelming  her.  Vaguely 
she  had  heard  of  supernatural  graces  which  brought 
to  the  questing  soul  divine  guidance,  and  she  knew 
that  in  that  mystical  hour  her  own  soul  had  thus 
definitely  received  such  guidance.  Utterly  and  phys- 
ically exhausted,  she  had  emerged  from  it  van- 
quished, and  for  the  time  humbly  submissive.  But 
the  effects  of  the  experience  had  not  lasted;  she 
had  determined  deliberately  that  they  should  not  last. 
She  would  not  yield  her  body  and  her  soul  to  that 
new  shaping.  She  had  defied  the  Hand  that  would 
have  fashioned  her  anew.  But  she  had  always  been 
conscious  of  it  ever  since,  of  its  nearness,  its  power, 
its  intention.  And  most  of  all  had  she  been  acutely 
aware  of  it  in  the  hour  when  she  had  promised  to 
marry  Paul  Pallant.  Her  rebellion  had  been  pre- 
meditated and  intentional. 

And  now  Ian  Frazer's  letter  had  awakened  within 
her  something  that  was  stronger  than  a  scruple.  She 
felt  actually  afraid,  and  as  it  were  physically  afraid, 
lan's  fine  fair  face,  with  its  piercing  blue  eyes,  rose 
up  before  her.  A  man  who  had  not  loved  her,  and 
yet  who  had  exhibited  this  passionate,  personal  in- 


254  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

terest  in  her  "spiritual  future."  He  was  afraid  for 
her.  He  wished  at  all  costs  to  save  her  from  a 
peril  she  could  hardly  estimate,  and  which  was  even 
more  terrible  in  its  nebulous  formlessness  than  any 
concrete  and  defined  danger  could  possibly  have 
been.  As  she  realised  this  fact  she  turned  a  little 
cold  and  faint.  Vaguely  she  remembered  some  such 
sentence  as  this :  "Lest  haply  we  be  fighting  against 
God."  She  had  had  that  moment  of  mystic  illumi- 
nation, and  she  had  recovered  from  the  overwhelm- 
ing power  of  it  only  to  fight  against  it  and  defy  it. 
In  the  very  face  of  it  she  had  promised  to  be  Paul 
Pallant's  wife.  .  .  . 

At  that  moment  she  felt  acutely,  profoundly  mis- 
erable. The  whole  atmosphere  of  Assisi  seemed  to 
surround  her  and  envelop  her.  She  saw  the  pitiless 
face  of  Ian  Frazer;  she  heard  his  voice  uttering 
harsh  and  cruel  warnings.  All  her  scruples  were 
revived  a  thousandfold.  She  found  herself  saying 
aloud,  almost  mechanically,  "I  won't  marry  Paul — 
I  can't  marry  him.  When  I  explain  things  to  him 
he  will  surely  understand." 

Her  first  action  on  rising  was  to  scribble  a  little 
hurried  note  to  Paul.  "Don't  come  down  here  yet," 
she  wrote,  "I  am  disturbed  and  worried  about  some- 
thing. I  will  write  directly  I  can  see  you.  I  am 
afraid  we  have  arranged  everything  too  hastily. 
You  must  remember  that  I  am  not  even  technically 
free."  She  folded  the  letter,  enclosed  it  in  an  en- 
velope and  rang  for  the  maid  to  post  it.  The  little 
precipitate  action  soothed  her.  It  was  a  satisfac- 
tion to  have  accomplished  something,  however 
small.  Paul  must  know  that  she  was  again  hesi- 
tating, again  vacillating.  Perhaps  he  would  think 
that  she  was  capricious  and  changeable.  But  as 
she  examined  her  heart  she  knew  that  she  was 
prompted  by  something  much  stronger  than  mere 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  255 

caprice.  She  had  accepted  Paul  deliberately  in  a 
moment  of  rebellion,  and  now  Ian  Frazer's  letter 
had  brought  back  most  vividly  and  clearly  to  her 
mind  the  lesson  she  had  learned  at  Assisi.  Already 
she  was  beginning  to  see  that  her  engagement  was 
bringing  her  neither  the  peace  nor  the  happiness  she 
expected.  Would  she  be  haunted  always — all 
through  her  marriage — with  this  intolerable  thought 
that  she  was  fighting  against  the  Divine  Will?  .  .  . 

i 

Of  course,  it  was  absurd  to  suppose  that  Paul 
could  be  kept  away  from  Bath  indefinitely.  He  tele- 
graphed on  two  successive  days  to  know  if  she  would 
receive  him,  but  on  the  third  day,  after  the  inter- 
view with  his  mother,  he  appeared  at  Brock  Street 
late  in  the  afternoon  without  warning.  He  was  get- 
ting by  this  time  acutely  anxious,  and  he  felt  that 
he  must  know  the  worst.  Something  was  evidently 
at  work  with  Gillian,  some  ulterior  influence  hostile 
to  himself  and  to  which  he  had  no  clue.  Gillian  had 
never  mentioned  Ian  Frazer's  name  to  him.  She  had 
always  felt  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to 
utter  it  with  confident  indifference,  so  greatly  did 
his  opinions  obsess  her.  She  had  purposely  spoken 
very  little  to  Paul  about  the  weeks  she  had  spent 
in  Assisi.  Obviously  he  was  not  interested  at  all  in 
her  Italian  sojourn,  and  the  very  mention  of  Gia- 
como  filled  him  with  acute  jealousy;  it  would  be  un- 
necessary therefore  to  tell  him  how  profoundly 
another  man — a  mere  passing  stranger — had  influ- 
enced her.  .  .  . 

The  two  hours'  journey  to  Bath  had  never  seemed 
so  long  to  Paul  as  it  did  that  hot  July  afternoon. 
He  scarcely  bestowed  a  glance  upon  the  beau- 
tiful, peaceful,  typically  English  scenery  through 
which  the  train  was  passing.  The  Thames  was  a 
clear,  silver-blue  ribbon  twisting  between  banks  that 


256  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE       \ 

were  exquisitely  wooded  and  then  between  fields 
filled  with  the  ripening  harvest.  Reading  was  passed, 
and  the  train  made  swift  passage  through  the  lovely 
river-places  of  Basildon,  Pangbourne,  and  Goring. 
But  his  thoughts  were  too  full  of  Gillian  for  him 
to  be  able  to  concentrate  his  attention  elsewhere. 
What  did  this  new  attitude  of  hers  signify?  Did 
she  intend  even  now  to  break  off  their  brief  engage- 
ment? With  dismay  he  recalled  her  words  of  the 
other  night:  "You  see,  I  learned  what  a  strong 
force  it  must  be  that  could  thus  separate  Giacomo 
from  me  when  we  were  so  happy,  when  we  loved 
each  other  so  much.  ..."  And  again:  "It  made 
me  ask  myself  what  this  Church  was  that  could  dom- 
inate even  a  man's  love.  ..."  And  in  those  words, 
although  he  was  still  unaware  of  it,  there  lay  the 
clue  to  Gillian's  hesitation,  Gillian's  vacillation.  But 
the  remembrance  of  them  sufficed  to  fill  him  with 
a  vague  alarm. 

Or  was  it  only  that  disastrous  past  life  of  hers 
that  had  scourged  her  into  this  cold  prudence?  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  she  had  learned  from  those 
two  experiences  of  hers  to  look  at  love  dubiously 
and  askance,  suspiciously  measuring  its  durability. 
But  must  he,  Paul,  suffer  because  Aylmer  and  Gia- 
como had  each  in  turn  proved  perfidious?  He 
tried  to  think  that  this  thought  lay  at  the  root  of 
her  present  mood,  but  in  his  heart  he  felt  that  this 
was  only  one  of  many  things  that  influenced 
Gillian  just  now.  It  was  not  only  because  she  greatly 
feared  and  greatly  doubted  that  she  wavered. 
There  was  something  deeper  than  that,  something 
that  sprang  from  a  more  vital  source.  It  was  the 
sense  that  marriage  for  a  woman  in  her  position 
was  not  only  a  mistake  but  a  sin.  He  perceived 
that  this  scruple  had  been  deepened  rather  than 
weakened  by  her  sojourn  in  Italy.  There  was  that 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  257 

engagement  of  hers — the  passing  idle  folly  of  a 
lonely,  unoccupied  woman,  Paul  was  learning  to  call 
it  to  himself — which  she  appeared  to  have  entered 
into  almost  as  readily  and  easily  as  her  first.  Yet 
in  spite  of  his  endeavour  to  explain  it  to  himself  in 
this  way  it  was  the  thought  of  that  engagement  that 
turned  Paul's  heart  to  a  wilderness  of  cold,  jealous 
fear.  This  man  had  evidently  possessed  something 
in  which  he  himself  must  be  pitiably  lacking  since 
he  had  been  able  to  pin  Gillian  down  to  a  definite 
engagement  with  the  very  month  of  their  marriage, 
the  venue  of  their  honeymoon,  duly  fixed.  Giacomo 
must  have  possessed,  in  fact,  the  power  to  persuade 
Gillian.  Had  she  loved  him?  She  had  admitted 
that  she  had  loved  the  things  he  could  offer  her, 
of  love  and  wealth  and  position  and  a  new  life, 
away  from  all  ancient  and  painful  associations.  She 
had  promised  to  marry  him  after  what  must  have 
necessarily  been  an  extremely  slight  acquaintance. 
Paul  grit  his  teeth.  He  could,  he  must,  envisage 
this  fact.  She  had  been  ready  to  become  this  man's 
wife,  she  had,  for  a  time,  cast  aside  all  her  scruples. 
And  from  that  second  shipwreck,  less  disastrous, 
less  painful,  but  even  perhaps  more  humiliating  than 
the  first,  Gillian  had  emerged  with  her  misgivings 
unaccountably  intensified.  It  was  the  very  force  that 
had  flung  her  to  the  ground,  the  very  lash  of  the 
whip  that  had  struck  her,  that  had  made  her  pause 
to  inquire  into  their  justice  and  authority.  And  it 
was  because  the  pain  had  been  so  sudden  and  severe 
in  those  mental  sufferings  of  hers,  with  love  and 
pride  alike  wounded  to  the  death  in  the  adventure, 
that  she  had  been  provoked  to  a  bitter  examination 
and  analysis  of  her  wound,  to  find  out  for  herself 
what  necessity,  what  reason  there  had  been  for  the 
hand  she  had  loved  to  inflict  it  summarily  and  with- 
out warning  upon  her.  .  .  .  Dimly  as  Paul  could 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

realise  something  of  the  train  of  events  that  madfe 
it  ten  times  more  difficult  for  him  to  win  Gillian 
now  than  before  she  had  left  England,  he  was  not 
yet  in  possession  of  all  the  facts;  he  had  not  the 
clue  which  lay  in  the  words  of  Ian  Frazer.  .  .  . 

He  felt  that  he  would  have  shielded  her  from  all 
pain,  could  he  have  won  her  promise  before  she 
went  away.  He  longed  now  to  make  her  his  wife 
and  chance  the  rest,  protecting  her  with  arms  that 
desired  only  to  clasp  and  shelter  her  from  the  storm? 
of  the  whole  world,  from  any  recurring  advance  of 
bitter  salt  waves.  .  .  .  Where  had  he  failed?  Not 
in  love  surely,  since  his  love  had  been  all  Gillian's 
since  she  had  first  come  a  timid,  shy  girl  to  his 
mother's  house.  His  love  was  ten  thousand  times 
greater  and  deeper  and  more  sincere  than  any  that 
Giacomo  della  Meldola  could  have  offered  to  her. 
It  was  so  great  that  it  could  never  have  inflicted 
any  pain  upon  her.  Once  having  won  her  he  would 
have  clung  to  his  treasure  in  defiance  of  the  whole 
world,  as  indeed  he  was  now  prepared  to  cling  in 
defiance  of  his  mother.  Gillian,  when  she  heard 
the  terms  of  Lady  Pallant  and  his  own  acquiescence 
in  them,  must  see  for  herself  that  his  love  had  an 
absolutely  different  quality  from  any  that  had  hith- 
erto been  offered  her,  from  any  that  Aylmer  or  Gia- 
como could  ever  have  given  her.  Only  .  .  .  why 
did  she  seem  so  ready  to  set  his  claim  aside?  Why 
was  she  still  so  hesitating,  so  evasive?  .  .  . 

Gillian  was  not  in  the  drawing-room  when  he  was 
shown  into  that  bleak  Victorian  apartment  with  its 
formal  arrangement  of  chairs,  tables,  cabinets,  and 
pictures.  Miss  Letty,  of  course,  had  changed  noth- 
ing since  her  sister's  death.  It  spoke  volumes  for 
the  enduring  tyranny  of  Miss  Matty  that  Miss  Letty 
would  have  considered  it  disloyal  to  alter  the  posi- 
tion of  a  single  china  ornament. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  259 

He  stood  there  staring  at  its  discomfort — an  or- 
dered Spartan  discomfort  that  was  singularly  ex- 
pressive of  the  elder  Miss  Stanway.  The  very 
chairs  seemed  to  forbid  you  at  your  peril  to  take  a 
moment's  slothful  ease  on  their  hard  seats.  There 
was  something  repellant  in  that  perfect  symmetry 
with  which  the  pictures  were  hung  upon  the  walls. 
It  was  a  room  that  boldly  challenged  all  modern 
and  luxurious  tendencies. 

Gillian  did  not  keep  him  waiting  long.  When 
she  came  into  the  room  looking  more  slight  and  elu- 
sive than  ever  in  her  thin  black  dress,  she  held  out 
her  hand  to  him  almost  without  speaking.  He 
could  not  truthfully  assure  himself  that  she  looked 
in  the  least  pleased  to  see  him.  It  was  something 
that  had  to  be  done,  got  through,  an  inevitable  turn 
of  the  wheel.  She  made  him  feel  desperately  timid. 
He  was  afraid  to  speak,  afraid  to  utter  a  single  one 
of  those  carefully  prepared  speeches  destined  to 
show  her  that  Lady  Pallant's  word  weighed  not  at 
all  in  the  ultimate  balancing  of  the  scales. 

"You  didn't  tell  me  you  were  coming?"  said  Gil- 
lian in  a  cold,  weary  voice.  The  touch  of  his  hand 
had  made  her  heart  beat,  had  made  the  pendulum 
swing  back  in  his  favour. 

"I  didn't  want  to  be  stopped  again,"  he  answered 
abruptly;  "you  see,  I  haven't  much  leave,  and  I 
wanted  to  see  you  and  tell  you  about  my  mother." 

"When  did  you  see  her?"  inquired  Gillian,  with 
a  slight  access  of  curiosity. 

"This  morning." 

"Only  then?    I  suppose  she  is  horrified?" 

Gillian  was  again  temporising  with  herself.  She 
was  certainly  going  to  marry  Paul,  but  she  must 
have  a  little  time  in  which  to  get  accustomed  to  the 
idea.  She  had,  too,  to  strike  a  bargain  with  him 
and  she  knew  that  to  both  of  them  it  would  prove 


26o  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

a  hard  one.  She  intended  to  make  the  condition 
that  between  now  and  January  she  was  to  have  per- 
fect liberty  of  action  and  absolute  freedom.  She 
intended  to  spend  the  whole  time  abroad.  To  begin 
an  engagement  in  this  way  did  not  perhaps  argue  any 
great  enthusiasm  or  intensity  of  feeling.  But  she 
wished  to  be  able  to  go  where  she  liked  without 
harassing  arguments  or  discussions.  She  could  not 
spend  the  six  months  of  her  engagement  in  dis- 
grace, as  it  were,  in  England.  And  she  was  sure 
of  her  feeling  for  Paul.  It  was  love  without  ro- 
mance— the  only  kind  she  now  assured  herself  which 
could  endure.  The  condition  would  not  be  an  alto- 
gether easy  one  for  herself.  But  she  wished  at  all 
costs  to  avoid  gossip. 

"Oh,"  he  said  suddenly,  "what  have  you  got  to 
tell  me,  Jill?  You  don't  know  how  your  letter 
frightened  me.  ..." 

She  met  his  look  straightly. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say?" 

Perhaps  her  voice  softened  involuntarily,  at  any 
rate  there  was  something  in  her  answer  to  break 
down  the  barriers,  to  bring  him  with  a  swift  sud- 
denness to  her  side.  Now  her  hands  were  in  his, 
and  he  was  covering  them  with  kisses.  Soon  she 
knew  that  she  would  feel  his  lips  on  hers.  She 
shrank  a  little  away  from  him.  The  moment  was 
beautiful;  it  seemed  to  chase  away  all  her  terrors 
and  misgivings;  it  stirred  her  heart  to  a  new  ten- 
derness. She  thrilled  under  his  embrace,  and  won- 
dered if  her  love  for  him  were  as  destitute  of  ro- 
mance as  she  had  supposed.  She  stroked  back  the 
black  hair  from  his  brow. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  that  you  love  me — that 
you  will  marry  me.  You've  made  me  suffer,  Gil- 
lian. .  .  ." 

His  face  was  white,  tormented.     She  thought  if 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  261 

she  had  not  loved  him  that  look  of  tormented  misery 
in  his  face  would  have  tempted  her  to  prevaricate 
and  say  that  she  did. 

"All  that?"  she  said,  and  smiled  at  him  as  if  he 
had  been  a  little  unhappy  child. 

"Jill  .  .  .  Jill,"  said  Paul.  He  took  her  in  his 
arms. 

"Now  tell  me  about  Cousin  Janet,"  she  said  pres- 
ently. 

"Oh  well,  it's  just  as  I  thought.  She  won't  re- 
ceive you — she  says  when  we  are  married  I'm  never 
to  enter  the  house  again.  And  I  really  think  she 
means  it.  She's  most  awfully  sick  about  the  whole 
thing.  And  Joan  isn't  to  see  you  or  write  to  you. 
Poor  girl — when  she  heard  that  she  ran  howling 
out  of  the  room  saying  something  about  never  see- 
ing her  dear  Jill  again." 

"Poor  Joan,"  said  Gillian.  "Isn't  she  engaged 
yet?" 

"Not  yet — she  can't  get  used  to  his  red  hair.  I 
admit  I  don't  care  for  his  fuzzy  pink  wig  myself." 

"Tell  me  more,  Paul,"  said  Gillian. 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it.  It  was  a 
beastly  row — I  haven't  got  over  it  yet." 

"I  shall  hate  feeling  in  disgrace  .  .  .  especially 
with  your  mother.  If  she'd  only  stood  by  us  we 
could  have  endured  other  people's  snubs  so  much 
better." 

"Why  should  there  be  snubs?" 

"Because  .   .   .  there's  Aylmer.  ..." 

"Oh,  Jill  dear— let's  forget  him!" 

"We  shall  never  be  allowed  to." 

"Look  here,"  he  said  masterfully,  "we  are  going 
to  do  this  deliberately,  you  and  I.  So  we  won't 
whine  about  the  snubs.  They  can't,  can't,  can't  hurt 
us.  .  .  ." 

His  words  seemed  to  reassure  her.    How  foolish 


262  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

she  had  been  to  allow  herself  to  fall  even  tempo- 
rarily again  under  the  influence  of  Ian  Frazer — a 
man  she  cared  nothing  at  all  about. 

"And  we  are  engaged,  aren't  we?"  he  went  on, 
"there's  to  be  no  more  foolish  talk  about  breaking  it 
off.  .  .  ." 

For  answer  she  bent  down  and  lightly  kissed  his 
forehead. 

"Yes,  Paul,  if  you  really  wish  it  we  will  be  en- 
gaged. Only  I  wish  Cousin  Janet  approved.  I'm 
sorry  you'll  lose  so  much  by  marrying  me." 

"If  you  marry  me  I  shall  gain  everything  in  the 
world  I  care  about!"  he  told  her  passionately. 

"But  even  that  doesn't  seem  right.  After  all, 
your  mother  has  claims.  We  can't  cut  ourselves 
adrift  altogether  from  the  past." 

"Life  isn't  a  harmonious  whole,"  said  Paul;  "we 
gain  something  here  and  we  almost  invariably  lose 
something  there  to  balance  it.  It  is  often  only  a 
patchwork  of  ugly  seams."  He  spoke  bitterly,  for 
his  mother's  words  had  wounded  him  more  deeply 
than  he  had  thought  possible;  he  had  seemed  to 
see  in  her  hostile  attitude  the  one  which  the  ma- 
jority of  people  would  adopt  towards  Gillian. 

"I  used  to  think,"  she  said  softly,  "that  life  was 
beautiful  or  not  as  we  chose  to  make  it." 

"The  ugly  things  aren't  always  our  own  fault.  I 
sometimes  think  they  would  be  easier  to  bear  if 
they  were  1" 

He  was  thinking  of  Aylmer,  of  Giacomo.  .. ..,  >1 

"But  often  they  are,"  she  said. 

"Our  marriage,"  he  said,  "must  be  beautiful." 

"We  must  try  and  make  it  so."  Her  face  hard- 
ened a  little. 

He  held  her  again,  kissing  her.  She  was  begin- 
ning to  sense  the  protective  shielding  quality  of  his 
love;  it  seemed  to  turn  her  very  heart  to  softness, 


rr  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  263 

to  break  up  all  the  hard  places.  She  was  glad  that 
Giacomo  had  broken  off  their  engagement  to  leave 
her  free  to  marry  Paul.  Out  of  that  past  pain  had 
been  born  this  wonderful  happiness.  After  all,  was 
it  so  necessary  that  they  should  be  so  completely 
separated?  Why  did  her  brain  turn  traitor  and 
impose  this  hard  condition?  Why  did  she  feel  con- 
strained to  act  with  a  prudence  that  was  cold,  brutal, 
almost  unwomanly. 

Her  heart  told  her  that  she  wished  to  be  near 
Paul  so  that  she  might  see  him  as  often  as  possible, 
until  she  could  be  with  him  altogether.  She  wanted 
to  taste  the  full  savour  of  their  present  happiness. 
And  his  presence  served  most  powerfully  to  dispel 
those  fears  and  scruples  that  obsessed  her  in  idle 
hours,  and  that  even  sometimes  threatened  to  gain 
the  upper  hand  over  her.  Was  she  to  live  through 
all  those  months  that  lay  ahead  seldom  seeing  him 
or  feeling  his  kiss?  The  thought  of  that  coming 
separation,  of  which  he  as  yet  knew  nothing,  made 
her  more  tender  and  gentle  to  him  now.  He  should 
have  that  remembrance  of  her  at  least  to  comfort 
and  sustain  him. 

Of  course  he  would  not  take  it  well.  He  would 
argue  that  they  would  have  plenty  to  endure  and 
suffer  without  adding  gratuitously  to  its  sum  and 
measure.  Why  should  she  inflict  needless  misery 
upon  them  both  ?  Why  couldn't  she  live  somewhere 
in  the  country  in  a  quiet  place  where  he  could  come 
and  see  her?  Or — stay  in  Bath  with  Aunt  Letty? 
And  when  she  did  reveal  her  intention,  little  by 
little,  almost  timidly,  as  if  to  try  and  soften  it  for 
him,  his  fierce  and  angry  arguments  took  the  pre- 
cise line  her  imagination  had  indicated.  Then,  find- 
ing these  fail,  he  fell  back  upon  the  bitter  assertion 
that  she  didn't  love  him,  that  she  could  not  possibly 
ever  have  loved  him  since  she  was  capable  of  evolv- 


264  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

ing  such  a  scheme  expressly  to  make  him  miserable  I 
His  final  furious  outcry  was  the  demand: 

"If  you  were  so  ready  to  marry  this — this  Italian 
in  October,  why  can't  you  be  ready  to  marry  me 
then?" 

She  had  not  expected  this  attack ;  it  fell  upon  her 
like  a  blow.  It  was  as  if  Paul  were  demanding 
whether  she  alone  possessed  the  right  to  inflict  pain. 
She  had  no  answer  ready. 

"Weren't  you  planning — as  you  yourself  said — to 
spend  your  honeymoon  at  Frascati  in  October? 

He  was  beside  himself  with  jealous  anger.  Gil- 
lian felt  almost  afraid  of  him. 

"What  made  you  promise  him  so  much  and  me 
so  little?" 

,"Oh,  don't  let  us  quarrel,  Paul.  It  would  have 
been  so  different  marrying  abroad,  away  from  every 
one.  I  do  want  to  avoid  unnecessary  gossip." 

"And  are  there  no  gossips  in  Rome?"  he  de- 
manded angrily. 

"Yes,  but  they  didn't  know  me.  Here  we  simply 
can't  be  married  before  January.  Then  the  year 
will  be  up." 

"You're  bent  on  killing  me,"  he  said;  "I  can't 
bear  it,  Jill.  I've  borne  enough  alt  these  long 
months  of  silence.  I  can't  go  back  to  it,  and  if  you 
cared  at  all  for  me  you  would  not  wish  me  to." 

His  face  wore  a  white,  bleak  look  that  hurt  her. 

"But  it  won't  be  silence,  Paul  dear.  I  shall  write 
— ever  so  often,  every  day  if  you  like.  Only  you 
must  let  me  have  my  way.  It's  the  only  condition 
on  which  I  can  be  engaged  to  you.  If  it's  too  hard 
for  you  you  must  take  the  alternative  and  let  us  be 
as  we  were — not  engaged." 

"Between  you  and  my  mother  I  shall  have  a  nice 
rime,"  he  groaned. 

"It's  only  six  months,  Paul." 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  265 

Again  she  pushed  back  his  smooth,  strong  hair 
with  that  caressing,  comforting,  beautiful  gesture 
of  hers.  .  .  . 

"When  do  you  mean  to  go?"  he  asked.  "I  can 
get  leave  before  the  manoeuvres.  If  you  were  in 
town  then  we  could  see  each  other." 

"Yes,  I'll  do  that,  Paul.  Then  I  will  leave  early 
in  August.  I  am  sure  the  six  months  will  pass  very 
quickly." 

He  still  looked  sceptical. 

"You  are  sure — quite  sure — that  you  love  me, 
Jill?"  he  asked. 

"So  sure  that  it  hurts  me  to  do  what  I  know  will 
be  best  for  us  both." 

"If  it  hurt  you  as  it  hurts  me  you  wouldn't  do  it," 
he  said. 

"I  wonder,"  she  answered  quietly. 

His  anger  had  subsided;  he  looked  crestfallen  and 
miserable.  Aware  of  something  that  he  considered 
capricious  and  changeable  in  Gillian's  disposition, 
the  condition  she  had  offered  him  as  well  as  its 
suggested  alternative  had  filled  him  with  an  icy  fear 
that  seemed  actually  to  impair  for  the  moment  his 
vitality,  his  physical  strength.  She  dominated  him, 
and  if  there  were  a  way  of  dominating  her  he  did 
not  know  it.  He  told  himself  that  he  had  to  sur- 
render and  submit  because  a  man  who  is  in  love 
will  submit  almost  to  anything.  He  could  run  no 
risk  of  losing  her  by  any  further  setting  forth  of 
his  own  claim,  his  own  point  of  view.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MISS  LETTY  demurred  a  little  when  Gillian  first 
suggested  that  Paul  was  hoping  she  might  in- 
vite him  to  spend  a  week-end  in  Brock  Street  before 
she  herself  went  to  London.  The  engagement  was 
a  profound  secret,  and  it  was  highly  necessary  that 
it  should  remain  one.  Although  the  decree  abso- 
lute had  now  been  pronounced  it  would  cause  a  great 
deal  of  gossip  and  scandal  if  the  news  of  Gillian's 
engagement  leaked  out  prematurely.  Apart  from 
this  more  serious  aspect  of  the  case,  Miss  Stanway 
was  mildly  flustered  at  the  thought  of  entertaining 
him;  she  had  a  nervous  fear  or  those  whom  she 
was  wont  to  designate  as  "smart  London  people," 
and  the  very  fact  that  Paul  was  an  officer  in  a  cav- 
alry regiment  increased  her  alarm.  Gillian  knew 
that  the  little  house  offered  no  luxuries.  It  was  still 
exactly  as  Miss  Letty's  father  and  mother — Gillian's 
own  grandparents — had  left  it.  Miss  Stanway  in- 
timated that  what  had  been  good  enough  for  them 
was  good  enough  for  herself,  but  one  could  not 
expect  young  men  of  the  present  day,  brought  up 
to  every  kind  of  luxury  and  comfort,  to  hold  the 
same  views. 

"Oh,  Paul  has  very  simple  tastes.  He  will  be 
perfectly  happy,"  said  Gillian.  She  almost  added 
that  in  this  respect  he  did  not  resemble  Aylmer, 
who  after  the  first  experience  of  it  had  refused  to 
submit  himself  to  the  Spartan  regime  of  Brock 
Street;  but  she  felt  that  the  mention  of  Aylmer 
might  still  further  perturb  her  aunt. 

"But,  my  dear,  people  are  sure  to  talk.  It  will 
never  do."  Miss  Letty  had  a  wholesome  fear  of 
gossip. 

"No  one  need  know  he's  here.  We  are  ift  \ich 
266 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  267 

deep  mourning,  and  then  every  one  knows  the  Pal- 
lants  are  our  cousins,"  said  Gillian. 

In  the  end  she  won  her  point,  though  not  until 
after  Miss  Letty  had  most  diligently  searched  her 
own  heart  to  try  and  discover  what  her  sister's 
wishes  on  the  subject  would  have  been.  It  was 
impossible,  however,  for  her  to  come  to  any  definite 
decision  upon  this  point.  Miss  Matty  had  always 
been  rather  severe  than  indulgent  towards  Gillian; 
had  even  thought  it  necessary  to  deprive  her  of 
quite  harmless  pleasures  as  a  matter  of  "discipline." 
But  now  that  she  was  a  grown  woman — a  married 
woman — (Miss  Letty  cherished  a  respect  almost 
amounting  to  reverence  for  the  married  state),  it 
was  impossible  to  deny  her  anything  for  such  a  rea- 
son; even  Miss  Matty  would  not  have  adopted  such 
a  course.  She  would  have  been  compelled  to  judge 
the  case  on  its  own  merits.  Miss  Letty  finally  gave 
a  timid  consent,  and  Paul  was  forthwith  invited. 

The  two  spent  much  of  their  time  on  the  river. 
The  hot  weather  had  driven  many  of  the  inhabitants 
of  Bath  to  the  seaside,  and  Miss  Letty  was  glad  to 
think  that  scarcely  a  single  one  of  her  own  friends 
remained  in  the  city.  If,  therefore,  she  had  been 
guilty  of  an  imprudence  in  inviting  Paul,  no  one 
would  witness  or  condemn  that  imprudence. 

Bright  burning  July  days  characterised  that  week- 
end Paul  spent  in  Bath.  Of  the  Spartan  conditions 
obtaining  in  Brock  Street  he  never  retained  any 
significant  remembrance.  The  cuisine  which  had 
repelled  Aylmer  was  unnoticed  by  him.  He  was 
with  Gillian,  under  the  same  roof,  and  it  would 
have  been  churlish  to  the  gods  who  had  granted  so 
much  and  so  splendidly  to  criticise  that  roof.  .  .  . 

The  Avon  winding  between  its  twin  rows  of  pol- 
lard willows,  with  the  distant  prospect  of  green 
woods  and  hills  faintly  lilac-coloured  in  the  summer 


268  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

haze,  was  well  known  to  Gillian  Driscoll  from  her 
girlhood  days.  She  was  very  happy  during  those 
hours  they  spent  there,  with  Paul  sitting  opposite 
to  her  lazily  rowing  the  light  boat.  His  shirt-sleeves 
rolled  back  beyond  the  elbows,  revealed  his  lean 
and  muscular  brown  arms.  She  liked  to  watch  the 
measured  rhythmic  movements  of  those  arms.  She 
herself  undertook  to  steer  the  boat,  but  performed 
this  task  indifferently  and  negligently,  for  her  mind 
was  preoccupied  with  the  thought  of  Paul.  She  felt 
that  she  had  fallen  upon  a  little  oasis  of  ineffable 
peace,  welcome  as  the  sight  of  a  well  with  palms 
must  prove  to  the  weary  Saharan  traveller.  It  was 
a  peace  so  perfect  that  one  did  not  stop  to  analyse 
it,  nor  even  pause  to  call  it  joy;  it  was  like  an 
atmosphere  that  enveloped  her  after  fierce  storms. 
She  thought  she  was  more  perfectly  and  more  tran- 
quilly happy  than  she  had  ever  been  in  her  life 
before.  She  had  no  fears  for  the  future.  She 
could  picture  herself  going  hand  in  hand  with  Paul, 
through  all  the  days,  through  all  the  years  .  .  .  glad 
and  sad.  ...  What  could  gladness  and  sadness 
matter,  so  only  they  were  together? 

"Oh,  Paul,  isn't  it  deliciously  peaceful?"  she  said 
one  golden  evening  when  he  rowed  the  boat  under 
the  deep  shade  of  the  willows  and  paused  contem- 
plating her. 

He  nodded  his  head  in  assent.  Then  he  shipped 
his  oars  and  leaned  his  chin  on  his  brown  hands, 
looking  up  into  her  face. 

It  was  very  silent  there.  Across  the  placid  river 
the  sun  was  trailing  a  path  of  primrose-coloured 
light  which  made  the  shadows  seem  by  contrast 
more  deep  and  definite.  Rows  of  pink  ragged  robins 
and  clusters  of  blue  forget-me-nots  made  soft 
blots  of  delicate  colour  along  the  banks  that  were 
clothed  with  long,  green  grasses  blown  back  by  the 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  269 

wind.  Swallows  flew  overhead.  In  the  distance 
they  could  hear  the  murmur  of  children's  voices  and 
laughter.  But  they  themselves  seemed  to  be  plunged 
suddenly  into  a  remote,  uninhabited  worm,  alone 
together  in  a  beautiful  and  unimagined  solitude. 

"Up  till  now  I  have  been  almost  afraid  of  happi- 
ness," said  Gillian. 

"And  now?"  He  looked  at  her  smiling.  His 
own  attitude  towards  life  was  simple  and  straight- 
forward, but  there  was  always  something  compli- 
cated about  Gillian  which  often  baffled  but  always 
delighted  him. 

"I  am  not  afraid  any  more.  You  have  brought 
peace  to  my  heart,  Paul." 

Yet  even  as  she  spoke  she  wondered  if  he  had 
destroyed  or  only  stilled  as  with  some  powerful  ano- 
dyne those  fears  and  scruples  that  had  once  held 
her.  .  .  . 

It  was  not  often  that  she  ventured  to  utter  any 
unprovoked  sentimental  speech  to  Paul,  but  he  ac- 
cepted it  quite  simply. 

"I'm  glad  at  least  to  have  done  that,  dear 
Jill.  .  .  ." 

Gillian  had  taken  off  her  hat — a  large  shady  one 
of  black  tulle  with  a  single  black  rose — and  a  sun- 
beam dribbling  through  the  boughs  touched  her  dark 
hair  to  unsuspected  gold.  Paul  thought  she  looked 
both  thin  and  fragile  in  her  black  dress ;  he  was  not 
sure  that  black  suited  her  too  well,  and  he  wished 
that  she  had  not  been  obliged  to  wear  mourning 
now  in  the  first  days  of  their  engagement.  Her 
face  was  very  calm,  and  wore  a  simple  almost  girlish 
expression  of  contentment,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  her  eyes  were  less  sad. 

"I  feel  that  nothing  can  ever  come  between  us 
and  our  happiness,"  she  added,  after  a  moment's 
pause. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"Ah,"  he  said  abruptly,  "don't  challenge  fate  like 
that,  my  dear  Jill!  I  am  not  superstitious  .  .  . 
but  I  feel  as  if  the  whole  world  were  engaged  in  a 
vast  conspiracy  to  rob  us  of  our  happiness.  I  wish 
you  could  be  locked  up  in  a  tower  like  the  princess 
in  the  fairy  tale  until  January  comes." 

Gillian  shivered  a  little.  His  mood  of  unreason- 
ing fear  communicated  itself  to  her  and  something 
of  the  brightness  of  the  day  seemed  to  have  dimin- 
ished under  it.  She  said,  trying  to  speak  lightly^ 

"But  even  that  didn't  save  her  from  her  fate, 
Paul." 

She  wondered  why  he  should  have  these  misgiv- 
ings while  she  herself  had  come  to  feel  so  strangely 
assured  of  their  future  happiness. 

He  rose  gingerly,  stood  for  a  moment  balancing 
himself,  then  made  two  cautious  steps  towards  her. 
She  felt  his  arms  round  her  and  closed  her  eyes 
to  feel  his  lips  touching  hers.  They  were  alone 
in  the  world — she  and  Paul.  Only  the  willows 
watched  them  and  whispered  the  secret  softly  to 
each  other. 

At  last  he  said  with  an  effort: 

"If  you  still  decide  to  wait  until  January  I  shall 
take  second  leave  this  year.  It  begins  about  Christ- 
mas. We  could  be  married  in  the  first  days  of 
January,  and  go  straight  to  the  South  of  France." 

He  waited  for  her  answer. 

As  she  did  not  speak  he  added  almost  violently: 

"That'll  be  giving  fate  five  months  and  a  half  in 
which  to  do  her  worst!" 

"Why  are  you  so  afraid  of  waiting,  Paul?" 

"I  don't  know.    But  I  am  afraid.  ..." 

"I  think  we  might  be  married  in  the  first  days 
of  January,"  she  said.  "You'll  see  then  how  foolish 
—-how  unnecessarily  anxious — you  have  been." 


EARLY  in  the  following  week  Gillian  went  to  town. 
She  stayed  at  a  quiet  hotel  in  Mayfair,  making 
no  immediate  plans  for  departure  although  she  in- 
tended vaguely  to  start  for  Switzerland  in  about  ten 
days,  and  remain  there  for  a  few  weeks  before  go- 
ing on  to  Italy. 

Paul  was  to  be  in  town  for  a  few  days  before  the 
annual  manoeuvres ;  he  had  put  in  for  leave,  and  thus 
they  would  be  able  to  see  a  little  of  each  other, 
since  Miss  Letty  was  rather  averse  to  repeating  the 
somewhat  hazardous  experiment  of  inviting  him  to 
Brock  Street.  His  first  visit  had  passed  off  almost 
unnoticed,  but  a  repetition  might  cause  comment. 
In  the  face  of  this  attack  of  prudence  Gillian 
evolved  the  scheme  of  going  to  town.  She  was  en- 
couraged in  this  by  the  fact  that  Lady  Pallant  had 
already  left  for  Scotland  with  Joan,  and  the  house 
in  Belgrave  Square  was  closed.  There  was,  there- 
fore, no  chance  of  meeting  her.  Paul  intended  to 
stay  at  his  club. 

In  Central  Europe  the  cloud,  no  bigger  than  a 
man's  hand,  had  already  gathered.  .  .  . 

Gillian  had  a  few  days  alone  before  Paul  could 
get  away.  She  enjoyed  the  solitude  after  those 
weeks  of  Miss  Letty's  exhausting  conversation.  She 
felt  rather  averse,  too,  to  seeking  out  any  of  her  old 
friends.  She  seemed  a  stranger  in  this  London 
world  where  once  she  had  been  so  well  known. 

One  evening  when  she  had  gone  out  for  a  little 
walk  she  suddenly  encountered  Amaryllis  Porter, 
coming  from  the  direction  of  the  Park  and  accom- 
panied by  a  handsome  sunburnt  young  man  whom 
she  immediately  introduced  as  Captain  Sprot. 

"My  dear  Jill — I'd  no  idea  you  were  back  in 
England.  When  did  you  leave  Assisi?" 

271 


272  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"Oh,  ages  ago,"  said  Gillian.  "My  aunt  died  and 
I  came  back  for  her  funeral.  I've  been  staying  in 
Bath." 

"Our  wedding  is  fixed  for  Thursday  fortnight," 
said  Amaryllis.  "I'll  send  you  a  card.  You  must 
be  sure  and  come.  The  reception  is  to  be  at  the 
Hyde  Park  Hotel." 

"Oh,  I'll  come  to  the  church,  not  to  the  recep- 
tion," said  Gillian  quickly.  "It  might  hurt  Aunt 
Letty's  feelings."  She  glanced  at  her  black  dress. 

"Very  well,  just  as  you  like,  as  long  as  you  do 
come,"  said  Amaryllis.  "By  the  way,  I  must  come 
and  have  a  long  talk  with  you — without  Hengist." 
She  glanced  at  him  with  a  frank  smile. 

"Come  to  tea  to-morrow  then,"  said  Gillian; 
"perhaps  Captain  Sprot  will  look  in  later." 

The  young  man  smiled.  "I  shall  be  delighted," 
he  said. 

He  had  a  pleasant,  open,  frank  face  with  keen 
blue  eyes  and  a  charming  smile.  Tall  as  he  was, 
there  could  scarcely  have  been  half  an  inch  between 
them. 

Amaryllis  appeared  punctually  on  the  following 
day.  She  was  full  of  her  wedding,  of  her  presents 
and  her  trousseau;  of  the  hours  she  had  spent  at 
the  dressmaker's,  and  of  Mrs.  Porter's  collapse 
under  the  strain  of  it. 

"But  she's  sure  to  buck  up  all  right  when  the 
day  comes,"  said  Miss  Porter  with  unimpaired 
cheerfulness.  "We're  going  to  have  a  long  honey- 
moon as  Hengist  doesn't  have  to  be  back  in  Egypt 
until  the  end  of  September.  We  shall  go  north  and 
spend  most  of  the  time  playing  golf." 

Gillian  leaned  her  chin  on  her  hand  and  looked 
at  Amaryllis  almost  wistfully.  The  future  seemed 
to  her  so  clear,  so  serene  and  straightforward,  just 
as  her  own  had  promised  to  be  in  the  days  when  she 
was  engaged  to  Aylmer  Driscoll. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  273 

She  said  impulsively: 

"I've  got  something  to  tell  you,  Ammy.  But  it's 
a  great  secret.  You  must  promise  you  won't  tell 
any  one,  even  Captain  Sprot." 

"Of  course  I  promise,"  said  Amaryllis  easily; 
"what  is  it,  Jill?  It  isn't  anything  bad,  is  it?"  she 
added,  suddenly  realising  that  Gillian  was  looking 
both  unhappy  and  perplexed. 

"Oh  no,  it  isn't  bad,  Ammy."  But  her  smile 
even  now  was  not  altogether  successful.  "I'm  going 
to  be  married  again." 

"Married?  Well,  that  is  good  news,  Jill  I  Who 
is  it?  Any  one  I  know?" 

"I'm  going  to  marry  my  cousin,  Paul  Pallant," 
said  Gillian  gravely.  "We  don't  want  any  one  to 
know  till  much  nearer  the  time.  His  mother  is  very 
angry  about  it — she  won't  receive  me." 

She  had  the  feeling  that  in  some  way  Amaryllis 
would  help  to  dispel  some  of  her  own  doubts  and 
difficulties  which  always  sprang  up  in  such  abundance 
whenever  Paul  was  absent. 

"What  beastly  hard  lines !"  said  Miss  Porter  sym- 
pathetically. "However,  I  hope  you're  not  bother- 
ing your  head  about  that,  Jill.  I  always  said  that 
she  was  a  cantanky  old  woman!" 

She  rose  and  bestowed  upon  Gillian  two  smacking 
kisses,  one  on  each  cheek.  "I'm  most  awfully  glad 
to  hear  the  news,"  she  said  heartily.  "I  hope  you're 
going  to  be  married  soon." 

"Oh,  certainly  not  before  January,"  said  Gillian. 
"I  told  Paul  that  I  thought  we  ought  to  wait  until 
the  year  is  up." 

"Don't  wait,"  said  Amaryllis;  "why,  you  might 
both  be  deadl  Six  months  is  an  awful  age.  .  .  . 
And  whose  feelings  do  you  want  to  spare?  Not 
Aylmer's  surely?" 

"The  world's,"   said   Mrs.   Driscoll,   who   was 


274  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

already  beginning  to  feel  braced  by  her  friend's 
bright,  normal,  and  wholesome  manner  of  looking 
at  things.  She  was  deriving  the  precise  kind  of 
comfort  she  had  hoped  for  from  her. 

Amaryllis  gave  a  snort  of  contempt. 

"I  don't  care  that  for  the  world!"  she  said, 
snapping  her  long  sunburnt  fingers  with  the  happy 
air  of  one  who  has  never  felt  the  sting  of  malicious 
tongues;  "what  does  Mr.  Pallant  say?" 

"Of  course  he  wants  it  to  be  sooner.  But  then, 
men  always  want  to  get  married  directly,  when  they 
are  once  engaged,"  said  Gillian. 

"Well,  I  think  myself  his  scheme's  the  sound  one ! 
Get  married — you  will  be  ever  so  much  happier  than 
hanging  round  waiting  for  six  months." 

"I  shan't  hang  round.    I'm  going  abroad  again." 

"What — back  to  Italy?"  cried  Miss  Porter  in  as- 
tonishment. "And  what  does  Mr.  Pallant  say  to 
that?" 

"He  doesn't  like  it  much,  of  course,"  confessed 
Gillian,  "but  I  wouldn't  be  engaged  under  any  other 
condition."  She  set  her  lips. 

"It  seems  to  me  from  your  own  account,  Jill,  that 
you're  giving  that  poor  man  an  uncommonly  thin 
time." 

"Am  I?"     Her  smile  conveyed  no  hint  of  mirth. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Ammy,  "did  you  see  much 
more  of  Mr.  Frazer  after  we  left  Assisi?" 

"Not — not  very  much."  Gillian  felt  the  blood 
mounting  to  her  forehead  and  was  angry  with  her- 
self for  this  display  of  emotion. 

"Does  he  write  to  you?" 

"I  heard  from  him  once,"  she  admitted  reluc- 
tantly. "I  didn't  answer  the  letter." 

"I  always  thought  he  was  in  love  with  you,"  ob- 
served Miss  Porter  complacently. 

"I  am  sure  he  was  nothing  of  the  kind  I  I  don't 
believe  he  even  liked  me,"  said  Gillian  warmly. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE;  275 

"He  was  an  uncommonly  decent  sort,"  said 
Ammy,  "but  I  expect  I  should  find  more  to  say  to 
him  at  North  Berwick  than  I  ever  did  at  Assist. 
Stuffy  little  place,  wasn't  it,  Jill?  Oh,  you  can  call 
me  a  Philistine  if  you  like,  but  I  felt  simply  choked 
there.  Choked  by  the  atmosphere  or  whatever  you 
call  it — it  seemed  to  catch  you  by  the  throat!" 
^  "Oh,  did  you  feel  like  that?"  said  Gillian  inter- 
fested. 

But  Amaryllis  switched  off  the  conversation,  and 
resumed  a  more  congenial  topic. 
:  "Oh,  by  the  way,  I  saw  Patience  Ferrard  the 
other  day  and  heard  some  Roman  gossip  from  her. 
That  young  brother-in-law  of  Imogen's — the  Mar- 
chese  della  Meldola — is  engaged  to  Grace  Widness. 
You  remember  the  American  girl  who  cut  Patience 
out?" 

"Oh  yes,  quite  well,"  said  Gillian,  flushing  a  little. 
She  wondered  if  Patience  had  imparted  anything 
further  about  Giacomo,  but  she  did  not  dare  ask. 
She  had  learned  now  to  be  heartily  ashamed  of  the 
whole  affair.  But  it  had  left  certain  impressions 
upon  her  mind  that  she  knew  could  never  be  effaced; 
perhaps  that  was  why  she  hated  to  be  reminded  of  it. 

"Mrs.  Widness  will  be  delighted,"  she  added 
guardedly,  "and  so  will  the  old  Marchesa." 

She  pictured  Grace,  the  happy  and  delighted 
little  handmaid,  trotting  dutifully  around  after  her 
mother-in-law,  accompanying  her  in  her  innumerable 
works  of  charity.  But  the  thought  caused  her  no 
envy. 

"Patience  declares  he's  not  the  least  bit  in  love 
with  her.  But  then  we  all  know  the  grapes  are 
sour,"  said  Amaryllis  with  her  buoyant  laugh. 
"They  are  to  be  married  almost  at  once,  I  believe." 

Presently  Hengist  appeared  to  fetch  his  fiancee. 
He  accepted  a  cup  of  tea  from  Gillian,  and  then 
asked  permission  to  smoke. 


276  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

The  two  women  presented  a  marked  contrast,  but 
he  congratulated  himself  that  Amaryllis  was  not 
delicate  and  fragile-looking  like  Mrs.  Driscoll.  "I 
should  never  have  dared  take  a  woman  of  that  type 
to  a  bad  climate,"  he  thought  to  himself. 

When  he  had  lighted  his  cigarette  he  said  quietly: 

"By  Jove — it  really  looks  this  evening  as  if 
there  would  be  a  scrap!" 

"A  scrap!"  said  Gillian  bewildered. 

"Between  Austria  and  Servia,"  he  explained. 

"What  tosh  I  Of  course  it  will  be  settled  all  right. 
There  won't  be  war!"  said  Amaryllis  confidently. 

The  words  awakened  a  very  disagreeable  and 
almost  forgotten  memory  in  Gillian's  mind.  She 
had  been  a  little  child,  less  than  eight  years  old, 
when  the  South  African  War  broke  out,  but  she 
could  very  perfectly  remember  Miss  Matty  uttering 
those  same  four  words  in  reply  to  a  timid  remark  of 
Miss  Letty's  that  "things  were  looking  bad  in  the 
Transvaal."  "There  won't  be  war.  .  .  ."  She  was 
for  the  moment  back  in  the  dining-room  at  Brock 
Street,  a  small  child  sitting  at  the  breakfast-table 
between  her  two  aunts,  and  she  could  hear  Miss 
Matty  saying  those  words  in  a  tone  almost  of  con- 
tempt. And  her  childish  belief  in  the  infallibility  of 
her  elder  aunt  had  sustained  a  rude  shock  by  the 
events  that  so  swiftly  followed.  There  was  war — 
a  long  war,  a  sad  war,  and  it  was  possible  that  many 
lives  were  still  darkened  by  its  shadow.  Something 
of  its  sadness  had  dimmed  Gillian's  childhood.  Her 
nurse  had  talked  freely  in  front  of  her,  and  she, 
alert  and  intelligent,  had  gathered  that  there  were 
black  days  of  anxiety,  of  defeat,  of  ill-success  in 
the  winter  that  followed.  She  could  remember  the 
troops  marching  through  the  streets  of  Bath,  stal- 
wart men  khaki-clad.  She  could  remember  going 
with  her  nurse  to  the  station,  to  see  them  pass  amid 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  277 

enthusiastic  crowds  who  had  assembled  to  give  them 
a  send-off.  And  among  that  crowd  were  women  and 
girls  who  wept  and  refused  to  be  comforted.  But 
on  the  whole  it  had  been  just  at  first  a  stirring,  dra- 
matic, hopeful  time,  full  of  an  excitement  that 
seemed  a  little  unreal  because  it  was  so  unaccus- 
tomed. Afterwards  Gillian,  who  was  always  sensi- 
tive to  atmosphere,  caught  from  her  elders  some- 
thing of  the  profound  gloom,  the  depression,  and 
discouragement  that  hung  like  a  dismal  pall  over 
the  black,  dark  winter  days.  She  remembered  a 
little  later  that  a  girl  at  her  school  after  a  few  weeks' 
absence  returned  wearing  a  black  frock  trimmed 
heavily  with  crape.  Her  brother,  a  youth  of  eight- 
een fresh  from  Woolwich,  had  been  killed  on  Spion 
Kop.  Many,  many  people  had  worn  mourning  in 
those  days.  .  .  . 

It  was  all  still  so  fresh  in  her  memory  that  she 
wondered  how  Amaryllis  could  have  forgotten  it 
so  completely  as  to  be  able  to  say  now  with  such 
confidence,  "Oh,  there  won't  be  war."  How  could 
people  still  cherish  the  comfortable  belief  that  war 
had  become  impossible?  Captain  Sprot's  words  had 
filled  her  heart  with  a  fear  that  was  inherited  from 
those  childish  days.  .  .  . 

"Anyhow,  England  wouldn't  have  to  come  in," 
said  Amaryllis. 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  a  curious  little  inci- 
dent occurred.  Gillian  observed  that  her  friend's 
bright,  good-natured  face  became  suddenly  grave  as 
if  a  shadow  had  passed  over  it;  she  turned  and 
looked  at  Hengist  with  an  expression  in  her  eyes  that 
Mrs.  Driscoll  had  never  seen  in  them  before.  It 
was  an  expression  of  great  tenderness  mingled  with 
a  strange  terror.  It  made  Gillian  think  of  the 
shadow  of  fear  passing  for  the  first  time  over  the 
serene  face  of  love. 


27$  'THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

Hengist  Sprot  kept  his  eyes  rigorously  averted, 
yet  something  in  the  expression  of  his  face  informed 
Gillian  that  he  was  intuitively  aware  of  Ammy's 
scrutiny. 

The  pause  that  followed  was  not  quite  a  normal 
one;  it  seemed  tense  and  expectant. 

"I'm  not  at  all  sure  about  that,"  Hengist  an- 
swered at  last,  and  speaking  rather  as  if  the  words 
had  been  dragged  from  him. 

"Oh,  you've  been  listening  to  those  horrible  old 
pessimists  at  your  club,"  said  Amaryllis  impatiently, 
"the  ones  who've  always  got  their  terrified  eyes  on 
Germany !" 

"They're  pretty  sound  men,  some  of  them,"  said 
Hengist.  His  face  wore  an  anxious  expression. 

A  gloom  had  suddenly  fallen  upon  the  little  party. 
Captain  Sprot  had  finished  his  cigarette,  and  per- 
ceiving this  Amaryllis  rose  to  go. 

She  stooped  and  kissed  Gillian.  "Good-bye,  my 
dear  Jill,"  she  said,  "and  don't  forget  Thursday 
fortnight.  But  you  must  come  round  and  dine  with 
us  one  night." 

Gillian  watched  them  from  the  window  as  their 
two  tall  figures  moved  quickly  down  the  street. 
Their  long  steps  seemed  to  march  in  unison. 

He  turned  to  her  and  said: 

"Charming  woman — your  friend,  Mrs.  Driscoll." 
But  Ammy  only  said : 

"You  don't  really  think  there  will  be  war,  do 
you?" 

And  she  looked  at  him  again  with  that  strange 
new  expression  in  her  face.  For  the  first  time  per- 
haps in  her  life  Amaryllis  Porter's  eyes  were  bright 
with  fear.  .  ,  , 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THEY  had  not  been  gone  more  than  half  an  hour 
when  Gillian  heard  a  motor  stop  abruptly  out- 
side.    She  looked  out,  more   from  curiosity  than 
from  any  other  motive,   and  saw  to  her  surprise 
Paul's  slight  figure  emerge  from  the  car. 

She  had  not  been  expecting  him  until  Saturday, 
and  this  sudden  unannounced  appearance  of  his 
three  days  before  he  was  due  increased  that  vague 
anxiety  which  Captain  Sprot's  words  had  awakened 
within  her  heart. 

He  came  into  her  sitting-room  a  few  minutes 
later,  looking  preoccupied  and  rather  perturbed  as 
if  he  had  just  heard  either  bad  or  very  important 
news.  And  he  kissed  her,  still  in  that  preoccupied 
way.  He  was  silent,  and  seemed  to  be  waiting  for 
her  to  speak. 

Gillian  sat  down  and  asked  him  if  he  would  have 
some  tea. 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Paul,  "it's  too  near  dinner- 
time. You  must  dine  with  me  to-night,  Jill;  it'll 
have  to  be  early,  because  I  must  get  back." 

"I  can  come  at  any  time,"  said  Gillian  tranquilly. 
"I've  just  had  Ammy  Porter  and  her  fiancee  Captain 
Sprot  to  tea."  She  paused  a  moment  and  then  said: 
"He  seemed  to  think  the  news  was  serious." 

"So  it  is  serious,"  said  Paul  abruptly;  "they've 
stopped  all  leave.  I  came  to  tell  you  I  shan't  get  off 
on  Saturday.  There's  something  queer  about  Ger- 
many's attitude. 

Gillian  drew  in  her  breath  sharply. 

"Would  it  affect  us  in  England?"  She  looked  at 
him  almost  pitifully  as  she  spoke. 

"That  remains  to  be  seen.  But  if  Germany 
marches  through  Belgium  to  attack  France  we  shall 
have  to  come  in." 

279 


280  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

Both  were  silent.  The  cloud  was  growing  larger. 
Already  it  was  assuming  grave  proportions;  already 
could  be  heard  as  if  from  afar  the  steady  marching 
of  leviathan  armies,  the  booming  thunder  of  mam- 
moth guns.  .  .  . 

"You  must  give  up  all  thought  of  going  abroad, 
Jill,"  said  Paul  in  a  tone  of  almost  rough  authority 
that,  strangely  enough,  she  had  now  not  the  slightest 
inclination  to  resent.  "It  wouldn't  be  safe,  even  if 
it  were  possible.  You  mightn't  be  able  to  get  back 
when  you  wanted  to.  Perhaps  I  shall  be  the  one  to 
go,  so  you'll  have  your  wish,  we  shall  be  separated 
all  right."  His  tone  was  light,  but  she  felt  that  he 
was  acting  a  part. 

"You  mean  that  you — you  would  have  to  go?" 
she  said. 

It  cost  her  an  effort  to  steady  her  voice  as  she 
spoke. 

"If  there's  war  we  should  be  among  the  first," 
he  answered. 

She  put  out  her  hands  and  touched  his  sleeve. 

"Paul,  what  do  you  think  yourself?" 

"I  think  if  it  comes  it'll  be  the  most  appalling  war 
the  world  has  ever  seen.  It  will  be  ...  Armaged- 
don. I  wish  we  had  more  men." 

Gillian  shivered  involuntarily  and  drew  her  hand 
away.  She  saw  herself  again,  a  little  child  clinging 
to  her  nurse's  hand  watching  the  khaki-clad  troops 
march  past  on  their  way  to  the  station  at  Bath.  All 
along  the  street  women  stood  sobbing.  .  .  .  She 
had  cried  a  little  herself  from  sheer  sympathy, 
though  she  understood  so  little  what  it  all  meant. 

"It  will  mean  simply  this — that  Germany's  ready, 
her  preparations  must  be  complete.  Her  only  weak- 
ness is  in  her  fleet."  His  face  clouded.  "I  shan't 
be  up  next  week — I  have  to  go  north  on  special 
duty.  Jill,  if  it  comes  to  war  we  shall  be  fighting  for 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  281 

our  lives,  don't  make  any  mistake  about  that."  He 
came  near  her  then,  and  putting  his  arms  around  her 
drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her.  "I  wish  it  were 
October,  my  dear.  I  don't  believe  that  you'd  say 
no  to  me  now.  One  or  two  of  our  chaps  have  de- 
cided to  get  married  at  once." 

The  sense  of  unreality  deepened  in  Gillian.  She 
felt  as  if  she  had  been  called  upon  suddenly  and 
without  warning  to  contemplate  an  approaching 
catastrophe  which  it  had  been  made  impossible  to 
avert.  It  was  like  watching  a  train  making  headlong 
speed  towards  the  edge  of  a  frightful  precipice. 

Scarcely  a  week  ago  she  had  spent  happy,  peace- 
ful, indolent  days  with  Paul  on  the  Avon;  it  seemed 
then  as  if  nothing  could  part  them  or  come  between 
them  and  their  ultimate  happiness.  Now  the  threat- 
ened frustration  came  like  a  dark  shadow  between 
them.  She  clung  to  Paul's  hand. 

"It's  the  worst  of  luck  for  me  that  we  can't  be 
married  now,"  he  said  quietly. 

Suddenly  she  recognised  what  it  might  mean  for 
her  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst  and  war  should 
be  declared.  It  seemed  to  her  already  as  if  Paul 
were  slipping  from  her  grasp.  Already  he  was  a 
little  further  away.  She  had  spoken  confidently  of 
marrying  him  in  January ;  it  came  into  her  mind  now 
that  the  ordering  of  human  affairs  was  a  less  easy 
thing  to  accomplish  than  she  had  supposed.  One 
might  hope  and  plan  and  prepare,  but  the  future  lay 
wrapped  in  obscurity.  Perils,  obstacles  emerged 
from  the  obscurity  to  defeat  those  plans,  destroying 
them  as  if  they  had  been  frail  houses  built  of  cards. 
And  as  her  mind  pursued  this  train  of  thought  a 
sick  cold  feeling  of  actual  physical  fear  came  over 
her.  Had  she  fought  for  her  happiness  and  fought 
in  vain?  Was  she  going  to  lose  Paul,  not  through 
his  infidelity  as  she  had  lost  Aylmer,  nor  through  his 


282  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

stubborn  religious  principles  as  she  had  lost  Giaco- 
mo,  but  through  a  mightier  power — the  Angel  of 
Death  who  reaps  men  as  with  a  scythe  ?  She  turned 
sharply  away  from  Paul  and  a  sob  broke  from  her. 
H.e  took  her  hand  in  his,  stroking  it  gently,  trying  to 
soothe  and  quiet  her  by  this  simple  action. 

"My  mother's  taken  fright,"  he  said  presently; 
"I've  had  a  wire  from  her — she's  coming  back  to 
town.  She's  asked  me  to  go  there.  Joan  is  com- 
ing too." 

He  had  been  a  little  suprised  at  receiving  this 
invitation  from  his  mother;  since  the  disclosure  of 
his  engagement  they  had  not  communicated. 

"Oh,  shall  you  see  her?"  said  Gillian. 

"If  I  can  get  up  again  to-morrow  I'm  going  to 
see  her,"  he  said;  "she  says  she's  got  important  news 
to  tell  me." 

"Important  news?  I  wonder  what  it  can  be?" 
said  Gillian. 

"Something  to  do  with  Alastair  Grant  and  Joan, 
I  expect,"  said  Paul.  "They've  been  staying  near 
his  people  in  Scotland.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Joan 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  him  at  last." 

"Ammy's  going  to  be  married  on  Thursday  fort- 
night," said  Gillian;  "she  asked  me  to  go  to  the 
wedding." 

As  she  spoke  she  recalled  with  a  sinking  of  the 
heart  the  look  she  had  intercepted  that  afternoon — 
the  look  that  Miss  Porter  had  bestowed  upon  Hen- 
gist.  Love  shadowed  by  fear  .  .  .  love  shadowed 
by  fear  .  .  .  love  the  conqueror  trembling  and 
afraid  because  for  the  time  he  sees  as  in  some 
obscure  vision  the  dark  waters  of  Charon's  dim 
flood,  across  which  each  lonely  soul  must  pass.  .  .  . 

There  was  no  long  suspense.  In  less  than  a  week 
the  first  blow  had  fallen.  The  first  paralysis  had 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  283 

been  succeeded  by  a  strange  energy.  The  world  was 
suddenly  transformed.  A  loyal  Ireland  displayed 
a  sudden  tranquillity  in  the  face  of  the  approaching 
storm.  The  outrages  of  the  Suffragettes,  which  had 
for  so  long  irritated  and  perplexed  the  nation, 
ceased.  No  one  spoke  of  anything  but  war.  No 
one  read  anything  but  the  dreadful  newspapers. 
Wild  and  extravagant  stories  of  victory  and  defeat 
were  circulated  only  to  be  contradicted.  Troops 
were  moved  mysteriously,  stealthily,  across  the 
Channel.  There  were  no  demonstrations  of  fare- 
well such  as  Gillian  remembered  nearly  fifteen  years 
before,  no  frantic  send-offs,  no  enthusiasm  of  de- 
parture. Bands  and  bugles  were  hushed.  Some- 
times there  were  not  even  individual  farewells,  there 
was  no  time.  The  railway  service  was  dislocated  by 
the  movements  of  the  troops.  A  profound  mystery 
drew  a  thick  curtain  across  those  movements. 
Everything  was  accomplished  swiftly  and  secretly. 
Gillian  experienced  in  those  first  days  a  nerveless, 
helpless  paralysis  of  mind  and  body  which  possessed 
many  women  at  that  time.  She  sat  in  her  room 
nearly  all  day,  eating  mechanically  a  few  scraps  of 
the  meals  that  were  brought  to  her  with  such  terrible 
regularity.  She  felt  incapable  of  action  and  envied 
her  more  fortunate  sisters  who  had  flung  themselves 
whole-heartedly  into  an  orgy  of  work,  of  knitting 
and  sewing  and  Red  Cross  classes. 

One  morning  she  received  a  note  from  Amaryllis 
Porter.  "We  have  decided  not  to  risk  waiting,"  the 
letter  ran;  "we  shall  be  married  at  nine  o'clock  on 
Saturday  morning  and  there  will  be  no  reception. 
Come  if  you  can,  dear  Jill." 

She  envied  Ammy.  .  .  . 

The  note  was  quickly  followed  by  one  from  Paul, 
dated  from  his  mother's  house  in  Belgrave  Square : 

"Alastair  and  Joan  have  fixed  it  up.  I'm  to  give 
her  away — if  I  can — next  Monday." 


284  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

She  felt  bewildered.  There  was  something  tragic 
about  these  marriages,  as  of  women  marrying  dying 
men.  .  .  . 

From  time  to  time  Paul  came  to  see  her;  his  visits 
were  brief  and  generally  unexpected.  She  hardly 
dared  leave  the  house  for  fear  of  missing  him  or  a 
message  from  him.  The  telephone  bell  made  her 
start  and  tremble.  Her  nerves  were  jarred  by  the 
inertia,  the  suspense.  When  Paul  came  he  seemed 
to  her  changed.  He  was  eager  and  full  of  ardour 
for  the  coming  campaign.  She  felt  as  though  she 
no  longer  occupied  the  first  place  in  his  life,  in  his 
thoughts.  When  he  came  to  say  good-bye  to  her 
she  could  not  cry ;  her  heart  seemed  turned  to  stone. 
He  told  her  that  he  would  be  leaving  in  two  days. 
It  was  a  great  secret.  People  were  forbidden  to 
speak  of  the  movements  of  the  troops;  it  might  en- 
danger their  safe  transit  to  France.  He  would  write 
to  her  when  he  got  across.  She  was  stunned  and  be- 
wildered by  the  awful  upheaval  .  .  .  she  kissed 
Paul  and  received  his  kisses  uncomprehendingly.  A 
sudden  vision  of  her  little  school-friend  in  Bath  rose 
before  her  eyes  .  .  .  she  could  see  the  very  way  in 
which  the  black  frock  had  been  fashioned  with  a 
deep  hem  of  crape  that  gave  a  curious  air  of  mature 
dignity  to  the  childish  small  figure.  Yes — that  was 
the  kind  of  thing  that  happened  in  war.  .  .  .  She 
might  never  see  Paul  again.  Why  had  she  ever 
felt  so  sure  of  their  happiness?  It  had  been  so  close 
to  them,  theirs  almost  for  the  taking  .  .  .  surely 
it  could  not  now  be  cruelly  frustrated?  .  .  .  She 
put  out  two  groping,  clinging  hands,  as  if  to  hold 
him  back  from  all  the  dangers  that  encompassed 
him.  .  .  . 

"Paul — Paul — what  does  it  mean?"  she  cried. 
Her  eyes  were  bright  with  unshed  tears. 

He  tried  to  calm  her. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  285 

"We  shall  want  all  our  courage,  my  darling,"  he 
said,  taking  her  in  his  arms  with  a  kind  of  passion- 
less tenderness.  "It  isn't  going  to  be  easy  for  any 
of  us — for  women  as  well  as  for  men.  Women  who 
lost  their  husbands  in  South  Africa  may  have  to 
give  their  sons  now.  Sons  who  were  perhaps  too 
little  to  remember  their  fathers'  faces  ..." 

She  looked  at  him  then  as  if  trying  to  photograph 
his  face  for  ever  upon  her  mind — the  smooth  black 
hair  that  grew  so  thickly  against  his  forehead,  the 
striking  and  unusual  pallor  of  his  face  with  its  heavy- 
lidded,  melancholy  eyes  and  thinly  pencilled  black 
eyebrows,  his  smile  that  was  at  once  rare  and  singu- 
larly attraciive.  He  had  become  in  those  days  most 
passionately  dear  to  her.  It  was  as  if  a  gigantic 
mirror  had  been  held  up  before  the  whole  nation 
wherein  each  individual  beheld  the  secrets  of  his  own 
heart  in  due  proportion  and  without  possibility 
of  evasion.  The  false  gods  fell  in  that  hour.  The 
sifting  of  the  wheat  was  accomplished  as  it  were 
automatically.  Each  heart  knew  in  the  reflection  of 
that  gigantic  mirror  the  thing  that  in  all  the  world 
was  most  dear,  most  precious.  .  .  .  There  was  no 
escaping  that  knowledge. 

And  for  Gillian  the  whcle  world  had  become  sud- 
denly empty;  it  held  only  herself  and  Paul.  .  .  . 
She  felt  as  if  only  now  had  she  learned  what  love 
could  mean.  .  .  .She  did  not  understand  the 
Gillian  who  had  once  treated  that  love  so  lightly, 
had  tried  to  put  another  in  its  place,  had  thought 
and  spoken  carelessly  of  repudiating  it. 

It  was  only  after  he  had  gone  that  evening  that 
she  was  able  to  cry. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

GILLIAN  had  never  at  any  time  a  detailed  remem- 
brance of  the  first  days  of  the  Great  War. 
Events  followed  each  other  too  rapidly,  so  quickly 
that  their  outlines  blended  one  with  another.  Noth- 
ing stood  out  sharply  or  distinctly;  all  was  blurred 
and  confused  as  if  it  had  taken  place  in  the  dark. 
She  seemed  to  lose  all  sense  of  the  passing  of  time. 

She  was  one  of  those  people  who  in  times  of  very 
acute  anxiety  require  to  be  alone.  She  therefore 
moved  into  a  little  furnished  house  in  Chelsea  near 
the  Embankment.  It  was  in  a  very  quiet  road,  and 
its  shady  garden  made  a  pleasant  refuge  in  those 
September  days.  But  those  first  weeks  were  to  her 
like  an  eternity  of  torment,  formless  and  nebulous. 

The  world  held  its  breath  watching  with  eyes  of 
anguish  the  fierce  and  pitiless  grinding  underfoot  of 
Belgium,  followed  by  the  mad  rush  of  the  enemy 
Paris-wards.  The  people  of  France  were  on  their 
knees;  their  churches  were  open  day  and  night,  re- 
ceiving vast  throngs  of  men,  women,  and  little  chil- 
dren. A  hundred  thousand  candles  were  piously  lit 
that  week  in  the  Church  of  Our  Lady  of  Victories. 
It  seemed  impossible  that  Paris  should  be  saved. 
When  the  German  strategy  failed  suddenly  and  com- 
pletely within  sight  of  its  objective  it  seemed  as  if  an 
audible  sob  of  relief  went  up  from  the  throats  of 
those  kneeling  worshippers.  There  was  a,  hint, 
spoken  of  guardedly  in  some  quarters,  openly  in 
others,  of  miraculous  intervention  at  the  Battle  of 
the  Marne.  Paris  was  safe.  .  .  . 

Before  he  left  for  France,  Paul  and  his  mother 
were  completely  reconciled.  It  was  indeed  a  time  of 
general  reconciliation.  In  the  face  of  that  one 
great  enemy,  ever  nearing  the  gate,  all  lesser  enmities 
were  set  aside;  there  was  no  longer  any  room  for 

286 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  287 

them.  People  forgot  their  feuds.  Hatchets  of  quite 
respectable  antiquity  were  suddenly  buried.  The 
hardest  hearts  softened.  The  most  miserly  gave 
abundantly;  there  was  a  spontaneous  emanation  of 
love,  sympathy,  and  altruism.  Many  prayed  to 
whom  the  habit  of  prayer  had  long  been  unknown. 
Golden  lads  flocked  to  the  recruiting  stations.  The 
very  face  of  England  was  changed.  .  .  . 

Gillian  spent  the  time  for  the  most  part  alone. 
She  shrank  from  her  fellow-creatures,  afraid  to  dis- 
close her  pain.  She  was  like  a  stricken  animal  that 
creeps  away  to  hide  its  hurt.  To  many  proud  natures 
there  is  something  shameful  and  degrading  in  suffer- 
ing, whether  it  be  physical  or  mental;  it  seems  to 
impose  humiliation  upon  soul  and  body.  It  is  a  thing 
to  be  hidden  at  all  costs.  Those  who  pray  for  it  and 
welcome  it  in  deep  submission  belong  already  per- 
haps to  the  ranks  of  the  Saints.  .  .  . 

Sometimes  Joan  came  to  see  her — a  hurried  visit 
between  two  meetings.  Mrs.  Grant  was  a  fully 
qualified  Red  Cross  nurse,  and  was  eagerly  awaiting 
the  hour  when  her  qualifications  should  be  put  to  a 
practical  test.  If  Gillian  had  been  capable  of  smiling 
in  those  days  she  would  have  smiled  at  the  immense 
change  that  had  come  over  Joan.  There  was  a  new 
assertiveness  about  her,  a  disposition  to  criticise 
others,  a  determination  to  impose  her  own  point  of 
view  upon  the  world  in  general.  She  had  been  only 
too  ready  to  accept  her  husband's  estimate  of  her 
own  absolute  infallibility.  From  this  pedestal  to 
which  he  had  raised  her  Joan  had  learnt  in  these  days 
to  look  down  upon  Mrs.  Driscoll.  As  a  happy  wife 
she  was  able  to  feel  a  little  contemptuous  disdain  for 
the  woman  who  had  so  conspicuously  failed  in  her 
own  marriage. 

She  found  Jill  one  afternoon  sitting  out  idly  in 
the  garden,  with  a  book  lying  open  in  her  lap. 


288  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"I  can't  think  how  you  can  be  so  idle,  Jill,  at  such 
a  time,"  she  remarked  reprovingly. 

"Can't  you?"  said  Gillian  listlessly. 

"Alastair  likes  me  to  be  busy;  he  wouldn't  care 
to  think  I  was  mooning  about  all  day  with  my  hands 
in  my  lap!" 

"You  are  quite  right,  my  dear  Joan,  to  do  what 
your  husband  wishes,"  said  Gillian. 

"You  might  at  least — knit  I" 

Mrs.  Grant's  tone  was  becoming  exasperated.  Of 
what  use  to  prick  when  your  victim  gives  no  sign 
of  pain? 

"I  don't  know  how,"  confessed  Gillian. 

"Oh,  I  could  soon  teach  you !  Have  you  got  some 
pins  and  wool?" 

"Not  now,  thank  you,  my  dear  Joan,"  said  Mrs. 
Driscoll  quickly.  "I'm  really  paying  lots  of  people 
to  knit,  if  you  must  know!" 

"Still  one  wants  to  feel  one's  doing  something  I" 
said  Joan. 

She  wondered  now  at  her  own  old  extravagant  ad- 
miration of  all  that  Gillian  did  and  said.  Alastair 
had  openly  confessed  that  he  did  not  admire  women 
of  "that  type,"  and  thought  Paul  was  making  a  very 
great  mistake,  one  that  he  might  possibly  live  to 
repent.  Thus  was  the  old  idol  summarily  dethroned 
and  dispossessed  by  the  new.  "And  of  course  she 
is  appallingly  useless,"  Joan  thought  to  herself.  "A 
national  crisis  like  this  shows  people  up  in  their  true 
colours !" 

"Do  you  sit  out  here  all  day  long?"  she  inquired, 
glancing  around  the  garden. 

"Not  all  day,  but  whenever  I  feel  like  it." 

"I  suppose  Paul  writes  to  you?" 

"I've  had  one  postcard  with  everything  scratched 
out  except  that  he  was  quite  well — one  of  those 
printed  things." 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  289 

"Oh,  yes,  mother  had  one  too.  I  have  had  two 
letters  from  Alastair,"  said  Joan  proudly. 

A  servant  emerged  from  the  house  and  ap- 
proached them. 

"Please,  ma'am,  Mrs.  Sprot  wants  to  speak  to 
you  on  the  telephone,"  she  said. 

Gillian  got  up  and  ran  indoors  without  stopping 
to  make  an  apology  to  Joan  for  leaving  her. 

She  took  up  the  receiver.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
already  she  knew  what  Ammy  had  to  tell  her. 

"Are  you  there?     Is  that  Ammy?" 

She  waited.     Then: 

"Come  and  see  me,  dear  Jill.  You  will  come  at 
once,  won't  you?  Mother's  away  and  I've  had  a 
telegram.  Oh,  you  understand,  don't  you?  It's 
about  Hengist.  Yet,  yes,  it's  really  that.  Do  come 
as  soon  as  you  can.  ..." 

Gillian's  face  was  as  white  as  a  sheet  when  she 
went  back  into  the  garden. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Joan,"  she  began,  "but  I'm 
going  round  to  see  Mrs.  Sprot  at  once  .  .  .  she's 
had  bad  news.  ..."  Her  words  came  pitifully. 
Joan  sprang  up,  and  it  was  the  old  Joan,  a  meek, 
tender-hearted,  tearful  girl  who  stood  before  her. 

"Oh,  Jill  dear,  you  don't  mean  that?"  The  tears 
were  in  her  blue  eyes.  She  put  her  arms  round 
Gillian's  neck  and  kissed  her.  "Oh,  poor  thing — 
she  was  only  married  two  or  three  days  before  we 
werel  Let  me  take  you  there  in  the  motor.  I'm 
not  going  anywhere  this  afternoon." 

Gillian  went  upstairs  and  put  on  her  hat.  She 
and  Joan  started  off  in  the  motor  without  delay. 
They  scarcely  spoke  a  word  on  the  way  to  Albemarle 
Street,  where  Ammy  and  her  mother  had  taken 
rooms.  Even  Joan  saw  the  necessity  for  silence. 

There  are  killed  and  wounded  by  war  of  whom 
no  returns  reach  Downing  Street.  ...  ...  .,_ 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

When  Gillian  first  saw  Amaryllis  she  remembered 
those  words  from  the  poignant  little  history  of  Jack- 
anapes. She  knew  that  she  was  in  the  presence  of 
one  of  the  innumerable  uncounted  wounded  in  war 
of  whom  no  official  record  is  ever  kept.  It  was 
pitiable  to  see  her.  Her  brave  cheery  manner 
seemed  to  Gillian  the  saddest  thing  of  all.  The  tele- 
gram, a  few  hours  old,  lay  in  her  hand. 

"Dear  Jill,  how  simply  sweet  of  you  to  come.  Of 
course  I  always  knew  it  was  going  to  happen  .  .  . 
but  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  so  soon."  Ammy's 
blue  eyes  were  quite  clear  and  tearless.  She  stood 
up  looking  very  tall  and  erect.  "These  have  been 
awful  days,  haven't  they?  You  see  he  was  almost 
one  of  the  first."  Her  voice  dropped  a  little. 

Gillian  laid  her  slim  white  hand  on  Mrs.  Sprot's 
big  sunburnt  one. 

"Dear,"  dear  Ammy,"  she  said,  "how  glad  you 
must  be  now  that  you  were  his  wife.  ..." 

"It's  just  two  months  since  we  were  married," 
said  Amaryllis,  twisting  her  wedding  ring.  "Yes — 
I'm  very,  very  glad  I  was  his  wife.  I  wish  I  could 
have  seen  him  before  he  died.  .  .  .  I'm  sure  he 
was  splendid."  She  stopped,  and  raised  the  hand 
with  the  ring  on  it  to  her  lips.  "When  we  got  en- 
gaged in  Egypt  last  winter  we  thought  we  should 
have  a  long,  long  life  together.  ...  I  suppose  every 
one  thinks  that.  .  .  .  And  we  had  less  than  a  week 
together.  ..."  She  looked  pitifully  at  Gillian. 
"Couldn't  you  stay  with  me  ?  There's  mother's  room 
— she  won't  be  back  till  to-morrow." 

"But  of  course  I'll  stay  with  you,  Ammy  dear," 
said  Gillian.  "I'll  just  run  home  and  get  a  few 
things,  and  leave  my  address  in  case  any  message 


comes." 


"Ah,  that's  the  dreadful  part  of  it,"  said  Ama- 
ryllis; "one  doesn't  dare  to  go  out  for  a  few  hours 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  291 

without  leaving  an  address.  And  now  I  shall  miss 
my  rack.  ..."  Her  voice  held  for  the  first  time 
a  queer  catch  in  it  as  if  her  throat  were  closing. 
"You  won't  be  long,  will  you,  Jill?" 

"No,  I  won't  be  long,"  said  Gillian;  "have  you 
had  tea,  Ammy?  You  ought  to  have  some.  Give 
me  a  cup  before  I  go.  ..." 

When  the  tea  came  she  made  Ammy  rest  on  the 
sofa  while  she  poured  it  out.  Mrs.  Sprot  was 
soothed  by  the  silent  friendliness  of  Gillian,  her  care 
for  her  comfort.  She  drank  the  tea,  for  she  had 
eaten  nothing  all  day — not  since  the  arrival  of  the 
fatal  telegram. 

As  she  lay  there  Gillian  glanced  from  time  to 
time  at  her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  in  some  obscure 
manner  Amaryllis  had  found  a  source  of  consola- 
tion that  was  supporting  her  in  her  hour  of  supreme 
trial.  She  wondered  what  it  could  be,  for  on  the 
face  of  it  her  friend's  life  was  utterly  shipwrecked. 
Through  all  her  absence  of  sentimentality  Gillian 
could  perceive  that  she  had  given  her  whole  heart 
to  the  man  she  had  married.  She  had  known  it 
ever  since  the  days  they  had  spent  at  Assisi  together, 
when  Amaryllis  had  spoken  to  her  so  openly  of  her 
engagement.  What  could  she  see  ahead  of  her  now 
to  give  her  that  look  of  tranquil  hope  in  the  midst 
of  this  desolation? 

At  last  Amaryllis  looked  up. 

"I  meant  to  make  our  marriage  such  a  splendid 
thing,  Jill.  I  felt  I  could  bear  anything  as  long  as  I 
had  him  with  me.  I  meant  never  to  complain  or 
grouse  as  so  many  women  do  when  things  go  a  bit 
wrong,  or  when  they  have  to  live  in  places  they 
don't  like." 

Gillian  said  softly: 

"Many  women  will  envy  you  very  much,  Ammy, 
because  you  had  that  week's  happiness.  ..." 


292  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

She  knew  for  herself  that  if  she  had  been  Paul's 
wife  her  own  rack  would  have  lost  something  of  its 
fierce  power  to  wrench  her  heart.  She  could  have 
faced  her  lot  more  bravely.  Now  as  she  sat  there 
she  could  not  help  thinking,  "If  Paul  were  to 
die.  ..."  Amaryllis  was  the  first  of  her  friends 
to  suffer  bereavement,  and  the  event  had  brought 
the  war  most  forcibly  home  to  her.  Although  she 
had  only  seen  Captain  Sprot  one  or  twice,  she  felt 
something  of  the  sorrow  of  a  personal  loss.  He  had 
been  so  young  and  strong,  so  splendidly  alive  and 
eager. 

"You  mustn't  think  me  a  hard-hearted  brute  not 
to  cry,"  continued  Amaryllis  after  a  pause,  "but  you 
know  I've  never  been  much  of  a  hand  at  it,  and  I 
simply  can't  cry  now,  I  only  wish  I  could,  I  should 
feel  better  then.  I  think  my  tears  have  all  dried  up. 
I  daren't  break  down,  Jill,  yet  my  heart  is  one  big 
raw  wound." 

"I'm  sure  it  is,  Ammy  dear,"  said  Gillian  softly, 
stroking  her  friend's  hand. 

The  caressing  gesture  seemed  to  soothe  Amaryllis, 
who  lay  back  against  the  cushions,  and  for  a  few 
minutes  closed  her  eyes.  In  repose  she  looked  fear- 
fully tired,  with  the  fatigue  that  only  a  great  grief 
can  give.  She  had  been  in  suspense  all  these  last 
weeks,  and  now  the  sword  had  fallen,  swiftly,  with- 
out warning.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  she  opened  her  eyes  and  stretched  out 
her  arms,  drawing  Gillian's  face  down  to  hers. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,  Jill  darling,"  she 
said. 

She  whispered  a  few  words  into  her  ear. 

When  Gillian  drew  back  her  head  her  own  face 
was  wet  with  tears. 

"Oh,  Ammy,  I  am  glad,  I  am  glad!"  she  said 
tenderly. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  293 

"Yes — if  God  gives  me  Hengist's  son  I  shall  have 
so  much,  so  much  to  be  thankful  for.  That's  why 
I  mustn't  break  down  or  make  myself  ill.  That's 
why  I  must  go  on  being  brave.  I  can't  think  of  my- 
self, Jill!  My  son  must  be  worthy  of  his  father." 

She  was  already  beginning  to  learn  that  the  war 
was  an  easier  thing  to  bear  for  those  women  who 
had  children,  and  who  possessed  a  stake  in  that 
future  generation  for  whom  the  present  was  being 
sacrificed.  It  seemed  to  form  then  but  a  part  of  the 
maternal  sacrifice  which  comes  naturally  to  those 
who  have  children,  a  part  of  that  immense  unselfish- 
ness which  is  to  be  found  throughout  nature.  It  was 
the  blood  from  the  breast  of  the  pelican.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ONE  day  to  Gillian's  surprise  Lady  Pallant  came 
to  see  her.  In  the  national  crisis  she  had  for- 
given Paul,  and  now  she  was  prepared,  temporarily 
at  any  rate,  to  forgive  Gillian.  The  spirit  of  recon- 
ciliation was  abroad,  and  had  claimed  her.  Though 
she  had  resisted  it  at  first  she  found  herself  longing 
to  do  something  to  please  her  son.  She  thought  it 
would  make  him  happy  if  she  wrote  and  told  him 
that  she  had  seen  Gillian.  His  devotion  to  Mrs. 
Driscoll  was  unfortunate,  but  it  was  not  a  thing  of 
yesterday,  was  no  passing  and  fleeting  passion,  and 
he  had  displayed  in  this  regard  an  obstinate  faith- 
fulness that  was  characteristic  of  the  Pallants. 

Lady  Pallant  was  feeling  lonely  too.  She  had 
never  spent  the  month  of  September  in  town  be- 
fore, and  she  found  the  atmosphere  with  its  stuffy 
sense  of  used-up  air  very  trying.  Joan  had  slipped 
insensibly  out  of  her  control  through  the  path  of 
matrimony.  She  even  refused  to  regard  Belgrave 
Square  as  her  home,  preferring  to  put  up  at  an  hotel 
and  thus  savour  the  full  joy  of  her  newly  acquired 
liberty.  It  must  be  said  that  at  this  stage  Lady 
Pallant  found  her  daughter  more  than  a  little  try- 
ing. Her  thoughts  were  so  completely  concentrated 
upon  Alastair  that  she  seemed  practically  to  have 
forgotten  Paul's  existence ;  she  confessed  to  no  anx- 
iety upon  her  brother's  account.  Joan  had  devel- 
oped of  late  on  quite  new  lines;  she  had  become 
alarmingly  prudent,  resourceful,  and  independent. 
She  was  critical  and  contemptuous,  and  immersed  in 
work  of  all  kinds.  She  spoke  frequently  and  dis- 
dainfully of  Mrs.  Driscoll,  whom  she  visited  oc- 
casionally out  of  pity,  though  professing  impatience 
towards  her  idle  uselessness.  To  hear  her  one 

294 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  295 

could  only  picture  Gillian  as  surrendering  to  an 
otiose  insensibility.  A  course  of  this  soon  drove 
poor  Lady  Pallant  into  the  opposite  camp,  and  thus 
she  descended  upon  Gillian  one  wet  evening  early 
in  October. 

When  she  alighted  at  the  green  door  of  the  little 
house  in  Chelsea  and  rang  the  bell,  it  was  still  rain- 
ing heavily.  The  door  swung  back  to  admit  her, 
and  she  walked  up  the  little  path  of  wet  flags  be- 
tween the  remains  of  what  had  until  lately  been  a 
pretty  and  gay  herbaceous  border.  Only  a  few 
Michaelmas  daisies  and  chrysanthemums  remained 
to  display  blots  of  soft  indefinite  colour.  The  trees 
in  the  garden  showed  diminishing  foliage  of  a  sad 
and  rusty  brown,  and  the  grass  was  sodden.  Lady 
Pallant  shivered  a  little  as  she  gazed  upon  the  au- 
tumnal scene.  "What  a  bore  a  garden  must  be  in 
London,"  she  thought;  "so  much  effort  and  trouble, 
and  so  little  to  show  for  it  all." 

She  wondered  why  Gillian  had  elected  to  bury  her- 
self in  Chelsea,  a  picturesque  locality  no  doubt  with 
its  pleasant  views  of  the  river,  but  a  very  incon- 
venient neighbourhood  unless  one  possessed  a  motor. 

She  had  not  announced  her  intention  of  coming, 
for  she  had  rather  shrunk  from  committing  her 
reasons  to  paper.  And  in  these  days  the  world  was 
so  changed  one  did  not  have  to  stop  and  consider 
whether  one  would  be  welcome  or  not,  one  took  it 
for  granted  that  one  would  be.  If  it  were  not  the 
millennium  it  at  least  resembled  it  in  this  respect, 
that  the  lion  could  for  the  moment  lie  down  with 
the  lamb  without  unduly  alarming  that  helpless, 
nervous,  and  innocent  animal.  Yet  in  spite  of  these 
reflections,  Lady  Pallant  did  feel  a  moment's  acute 
apprehension  as  she  followed  the  servant  across  the 
little  hall  into  the  drawing-room. 

The  day  was  gloomy  and  a  small  electric  lamp 


296  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

burnt  on  the  table  by  Gillian's  side.  She  rose  quickly 
as  her  cousin  came  into  the  room  and  went  forward 
to  meet  her,  wondering  a  little  as  to  her  errand,  but 
profoundly  convinced  that  it  must  be  of  a  pacific 
nature.  Else  why  should  she  have  come?  But 
another  thought — a  terrible,  paralysing  thought — 
succeeded  the  first  one.  Was  she  the  messenger 
of  bad  news?  Had  she  come  to  tell  her  that  some- 
thing had  happened  to  Paul?  For  a  second  Gillian's 
heart  stood  still  with  terror,  but  Lady  Pallant's  first 
words  removed  v.his  apprehension. 

"My  dear  Gillian,  I  have  been  wishing  to  pay 
you  a  visit  for  some  time  past.  I  hope  I  have  not 
chosen  an  inconvenient  moment !" 

"Oh  no,  Cousin  Janet — I  am  delighted  to  sec 
you.  Do  sit  down  and  have  some  tea.  It's  only 
just  come  in." 

Lady  Pallant  loosened  her  coat  and  sat  down  in 
the  chair  indicated  by  Mrs.  Driscoll.  She  glanced 
round  the  room. 

"What  a  charming  nest  you  have  here,  by  dear," 
she  said. 

"Yes,  isn't  it  pretty?"  said  Gillian.  "I  was  in 
luck  to  get  it.  Of  course  it's  tiny,  but  it's  quite  big 
enough  for  me." 

She  gave  Lady  Pallant  some  tea  and  then  poured 
out  a  cup  for  herself. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Lady  Pallant  without  delay, 
"that  you  have  had  news  of  Paul." 

"Yes,  I  have  had  several  letters  and  some  post- 
cards." 

At  the  mention  of  Paul  her  face  flushed  a  little. 

"He  seems  well,  and  wonderfully  cheerful,"  said 
Lady  Pallant. 

"Yes,"  said  Gillian. 

Her  face  softened  and  Lady  Pallant  observed  the 
changed  expression.  It  had  seemed  to  her  when 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  297 

she  first  came  into  the  room  that  Gillian,  despite  her 
studied  politeness,  her  careful  welcome,  had  been 
ever  so  slightly  on  the  defensive.  Perhaps  it  was 
only  natural,  for  she  must  have  known  through  Paul 
how  very  strongly  his  mother  had  objected  to  their 
engagement,  even  to  the  point  of  forbidding  him  the 
house  should  he  ever  marry  her.  But  Lady  Pallant 
had  been  prepared  for  a  certain  manifestation  of 
prickliness,  and  she  had  come  to  smoke  a  pipe  of 
peace,  for  the  sake  of  her  son.  She  stretched  out  her 
hand  and  touched  Gillian's. 

"My  dear,  I  am  sure  you  must  be  feeling  very 
anxious.  Ought  you  to  be  so  much  alone?" 

This  sudden  flourishing  of  the  flag  of  truce  took 
Gillian  a  little  by  surprise.  But  she  returned  the 
pressure  of  Lady  Pallant's  hand  and  said, 

"Yes,  of  course  I  am  anxious,  Cousin  Janet.  We 
all  are,  aren't  we?  One  wakes  in  the  morning  with 
such  a  dark  cloud  hanging  over  one,  and  at  first  one 
can't  remember  what  it  is.  I  can't  think  why  we 
weren't  all  deliriously  happy  before  the  war  .  .  . 
our  troubles  must  have  been  such  very  little  ones. 
But  I'm  so  used  to  being  alone  I  don't  find  that  makes 
much  difference." 

"I  hope  you  will  come  and  see  me  whenever  you 
can,"  said  Lady  Pallant,  who  was  determined  to  per- 
form her  task  thoroughly. 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Cousin  Janet." 

"I  am  often  lonely  myself.  Joan  comes  in  every 
day,  of  course,  but  generally  for  such  a  hurried  visit  I 
And  she's  so  wrapped  up  in  Alastair.  Of  course  it 
is  only  natural,  but  I  should  like  to  feel  that  she  was 
not  entirely  indifferent  to  her  own  brother.  I  do 
not,"  confessed  Lady  Pallant,  "find  Joan  an  alto- 
gether sympathetic  companion  just  now." 

Gillian  could  not  repress  a  smile. 

"She  seems  very  busy,"  she  observed. 


298  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"Busy?  She's  out  morning,  noon,  and  night.  Red 
Cross,  Belgian  refugees,  soldiers'  wives,  and  I  do 
not  know  what  besides.  I  am  sure  it  would  be  far 
better  for  her  to  concentrate  upon  one  thing.  But 
she  has  her  finger  in  every  pie.  I  can  hardly  believe 
it's  the  same  girl  who  used  to  be  so  lazy  and  loll 
about  half  the  day." 

"Were  you  not  astonished  at  her  engagement?" 
inquired  Mrs.  Driscoll,  who  secretly  sympathised 
most  profoundly  with  Lady  Pallant,  for  had  she 
not  also  suffered  from  Joan's  vigorous  energy?  She 
had  only  just  been  able  to  stop  her  from  going  to 
urge  Amaryllis  to  join  some  committee.  "Work 
will  keep  her  thoughts  off,"  Mrs.  Grant  had  con- 
fidently affirmed.  "It's  the  worst  thing  in  the  world 
for  her  to  be  moping  alone."  Gillian  had  been  com- 
pelled to  speak  very  plainly  and  Joan  had  gone  away 
in  a  huff. 

"Oh  no,  I  was  not  at  all  astonished,"  said  Lady 
Pallant,  helping  herself  to  some  cake.  "I  always 
knew  she  meant  to  have  him.  Joan  could  never  do 
anything  simply,  she  always  liked  to  appear  mys- 
terious and  evasive,  and  she  enjoyed  keeping  him  on 
tenter-hooks.  No  doubt  it  is  very  good  for  a  man 
if  you  are  quite  sure  of  him.  But  you  must  be  very 
sure.  .  .  .  When  she  told  me  of  her  engage- 
ment she  assured  me  that  she  had  been  in  love  with 
him  all  the  time."  Something  of  irritation  crept  into 
her  manner.  The  old  Joan  had  been  tiresome 
enough,  but  she  had  been  at  least  submissive,  if  one 
put  one's  foot  down,  and  amenable  to  discipline.  But 
the  new  Joan  was  both  tiresome,  wilful,  and  opin- 
ionated, refusing  to  recognise  any  authority  but  the 
absent  Alastair's. 

"Did  you  notice  any  change  in  Joan?"  Lady 
Pallant  inquired  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"Oh,  she  was  a  little  inclined  to — to  give  me  good 
advice,"  replied  Gillian  with  a  smile. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  299 

"I  hope  you  snubbed  her  well,"  said  Lady  Pallant. 

"Oh  no,  I  didn't  snub  her.  She  is  very  pleased 
with  herself  just  now.  I  didn't  want  to  spoil  her 
pleasure.  I  just  let  her  go  on,"  said  Gillian.  She 
added,  "She  hasn't  been  here  very  lately.  I  am 
afraid  I  annoyed  her  by  not  letting  her  go  and  see 
poor  Ammy  Sprot,  who  has  just  lost  her  husband." 

"You  were  quite  right,"  said  Lady  Pallant  ap- 
provingly; "she  ought  never  to  have  suggested  it." 

She  looked  at  Gillian  a  little  curiously  as  she 
spoke.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  her  since 
her  engagement  to  Paul,  and  she  found  herself 
trying  to  look  at  her  with  her  son's  eyes,  endeavour- 
ing to  discover  what  there  could  be  in  this  woman  to 
inspire  a  devotion  at  once  so  obstinate  and  so  pas- 
sionate. The  thought  that  Paul  had  been  ready  to 
submit  for  her  sake  to  that  harsh  sentence  of  exile 
from  his  mother's  house  pierced  Lady  Pallant's 
heart  as  with  a  sword.  Gillian  held  him  with  chains. 
.  .  .  Proud  and  cold  to  every  one  else,  Paul  was 
her  slave,  prepared  to  endure  all  things  for  her  sake^ 
He  had  made  no  advances  to  his  mother  after  the 
rupture  between  them;  he  had  never  sued  her  for- 
giveness nor  attempted  any  reconciliation.  She  had 
herself  made  the  first  advance  by  summoning  him 
home;  she  had  gratuitously  granted  the  forgiveness 
he  had  neither  asked  nor  sought.  But  for  the  tragic 
accident  of  the  war  she  would  still  have  been  steel- 
ing her  heart,  shutting  her  doors,  against  him. 
These  reflections  held  bitterness,  and  as  she  looked 
at  Gillian,  the  cause  of  it  all,  that  bitterness  insen- 
sibly deepened.  Gillian  it  was  who  had  robbed  her 
of  Paul.  Paul  would  have  sacrificed  the  whole  world 
for  this  one  woman.  ...  As  she  looked  at  her 
Lady  Pallant  tried  to  discover  wherein  this  attrac- 
tion lay.  Of  course  she  was  pretty,  and  in  an  un- 
usual way,  but  she  was  no  longer  in  the  first  fresh- 


300  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

ness  of  her  youth ;  those  past  experiences  of  hers  had 
made  her  look  more  than  her  twenty-three  years, 
had  given  her  a  maturity  of  outlook,  a  grave  as- 
surance. Numbers  of  girls  were  far  prettier.  .  .  . 
But  she  had — something.  Lady  Pallant  did  not  deny 
it.  There  was  a  grace  about  her,  a  charm  elusive 
but  permanent,  a  suggestion  of  suffering.  Her  eyes 
were  beautiful  and  held  a  curious  sadness. 

Lady  Pallant  was  so  immersed  in  these  reflections 
that  she  was  quite  startled  when  Mrs.  Driscoll  said 
suddenly : 

"Did  you  know  that  Aylmer  had  married  again?" 

"Married  again?  How  shocking!  Of  course  I 
had  not  heard  it.  Whom  has  she  married?" 

"Deborah  Venning,"  said  Gillian  slowly. 

"Deborah  Venning?  Impossible!  Your  own 
friend?"  Lady  Pallant's  words  were  jerked  out  in 
a  series  of  staccato  notes. 

Gillian  flushed  a  little ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
pattern  of  the  carpet. 

"Yes, — my  own  friend,"  she  said  with  a  bitter- 
ness she  could  not  control. 

"My  dear,  it  is  incredible!    Did  you  know?" 

"Not  at  first — not  for  a  long  time.  I  hadn't  a 
suspicion  even,"  Mrs.  Driscoll  spoke  deliberately 
but  reluctantly.  She  added  quietly,  "I  hear  that 
Aylmer  has  gone  as  a  dispatch  rider.  You  see,  he 
was  too  old  to  enlist." 

"I  wonder  Mr.  Venning  allowed  his  daughter 
to  make  such  a  marriage,"  said  Lady  Pallant  severe- 

ly« 

Gillian  said:  "He  thinks  everything  Deborah 
does  quite  perfect." 

She  remembered  Deborah's  fear  of  his  eyes  be- 
ing opened.  The  thought  brought  a  bitter  little 
smile  to  her  lips. 

Lady  Pallant  broke  in  abruptly,   "I  wanted  to 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  301 

speak  to  you  about  your  own  engagement,  Gillian. 
Of  course  you  know  that  I  do  object  very  strongly 
to  it.  But  my  objection  has  nothing  personal  in  it. 
I  disapprove  on  religious  grounds.  I  hope  you  have 
always  understood  that?" 

"Perfectly,  Cousin  Janet."  There  was  a  hint  of 
prickliness  in  the  brief  answer. 

"It  is  very  difficult  to  reconcile  one's  religion  with 
one's  feelings,"  pursued  Lady  Pallant  with  a  sigh. 
"Of  course  I  forgave  Paul  before  he  went  abroad. 
I  considered  it  my  duty." 

"I  was  very,  very  glad  to  hear  it,  Cousin  Janet," 
said  Gillian  earnestly.  "I  have  always  been  sorry 
that  I  came  between  you." 

"You've  no  scruples  yourself  on  the  point?"  asked 
Lady  Pallant,  looking  at  her  with  penetrating  eyes. 
"You  can't  see  any  reason  why  you  shouldn't  marry 
him?" 

She  had  no  idea  that  her  words  touched  a  raw 
spot.  She  knew  nothing  of  Gillian's  past  struggle, 
of  her  rebellion  against  the  Hand  that  would  have 
moulded  her  anew,  of  her  shrinking  from  the  pain 
that  that  new  shaping  must  have  inflicted  upon  her 
.  .  .  when  she  first  felt  the  touch  of  that  Hand 
which  Ian  Frazer  had  warned  her  would  hurt.  .  .  . 

The  little  face  hardened.    Gillian  said  evasively: 

"I  know  that  many  people  have  scruples.  But  I 
cannot  see  that  they  concern  Paul  and  myself,"  she 
added  in  a  curiously  controlled  voice. 

"When  do  you  think  of  getting  married?"  asked 
Lady  Pallant. 

"We  spoke  of  January.  I  wished  to  wait  until  a 
year  had  passed.  Paul  always  had  a  misgiving — a 
kind  of  presentiment  against  waiting,  even  before 
there  was  any  thought  of  war.  I  am  free  now,  and 
if  he  wished  to  have  it  in  October.  ..."  She 


302  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

paused.  Her  eyes  met  Lady  Pallant's.  She  won- 
dered how  she  would  receive  this  information. 

"He  is  sure  to  want  it  to  take  place  the  first 
moment  he  can  get  leave,"  said  Lady  Pallant.  "I 
feel  positive  he  will  not  wait  until  January."  She 
knew  her  son's  disposition;  it  was  the  kind  that  wears 
away  a  stone.  "I  wonder  if  you  will  be  able  to  hold 
out."  She  looked  at  Gillian  as  if  trying  to  measure 
her  capacity  for  resistance. 

"Of  course  it's  more  difficult  now.  The  war  has 
altered  things — one  wants  to  do  everything  one  can 
for  them." 

"I  quite  understand.  You  mustn't  think  me  hard- 
hearted and  unfeeling.  I  have  been  simply  torn  in 
two,  between  my  love  for  Paul  and  my  principles. 
If  everything  had  been  smooth  and  en  regie  I  should 
have  been  the  first  to  welcome  you,  to  urge  you  not 
to  delay.  I  want  Paul  to  be  happy.  It  hurt  me  to 
see  his  face  at  Joan's  wedding — I  knew  so  well  what 
was  passing  in  his  mind." 

When  she  rose  to  go  she  kissed  Gillian  on  both 
cheeks. 

"Good-bye,  my  dear — take  care  of  yourself.  You 
are  looking  very  pale,  and  thinner  than  I  like."  She 
paused  and  then  said:  "Once  I  wanted  to  come  and 
see  you  and  entreat  you  to  give  Paul  up  for  my  sake 
as  well  as  for  your  own.  But  I  can't  ask  you  to  do 
that  now,  for  I  know  it  would  break  his  heart.  Don't 
delay  your  marriage,  Gillian,  for  anything  that  I 
may  have  said  or  done  in  the  past.  I  see  that  I 
must  give  way  to  Paul  in  this.  And  if  you  make 
him  happy,  I  shall  forgive  you  everything!"  She 
kissed  her  again. 

"Thank  you,  Cousin  Janet,"  said  Gillian  simply. 

But  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  guessed 
dimly  at  the  great  fear  which  had  dominated  Lady 
Pallant  to  such  a  point  that  it  had  made  her  haul 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  303 

down  her  flag  and  capitulate.  The  fear  seemed  to 
communicate  itself  to  her  own  heart.  She  thought 
of  Amaryllis  and  trembled. 

"And  if  he  does  get  leave  next  month?"  said 
Lady  Pallant. 

She  looked  wistfully  at  Gillian,  She  seemed  to 
be  waiting  for  her  to  speak. 

"I  can't  say  anything  definite  now,  Cousin  Janet," 
said  Mrs.  Driscoll. 

"But  you  will  remember  that  I  have  completely 
and  utterly  withdrawn  my  opposition?"  said  Lady 
Pallant. 

"Yes,  thank  you,  Cousin  Janet." 

It  was  a  relief  when  Lady  Pallant  had  gone.  Her 
presence  disturbed  Gillian,  though  at  first  she  had 
felt  flattered  by  the  unexpected  visit,  the  waving  of 
the  flag  of  truce.  Gillian  had  ever  feared  those  fu- 
ture snubs,  and  their  effect  upon  Paul.  No  man  likes 
to  see  his  wife  slighted.  .  .  .  She  was  glad  to  think 
that  at  least  his  mother's  house  would  not  be  closed 
to  them.  But  Lady  Pallant's  words  had  revived 
and  re-awakened  other  thoughts  in  Gillian's  mind. 
That  point-blank  question  as  to  whether  she  pos- 
sessed no  scruples  on  the  point  herself  had  been  a 
chance  but  well-directed  arrow,  piercing  her  to  the 
heart.  A  whole  flood  of  memories  engulfed  her. 
She  could  see  Ian  Frazer's  face,  she  could  hear  his 
words.  She>  remembered,  too,  the  impassioned 
speeches  of  the  Marchesa  della  Meldola.  The 
impression  made  upon  her  by  these  events  was  a 
permanent  one.  They  seemed  to  touch  hands  with 
things  that  were  not  temporal  but  divine.  That 
was  why  they  were  so  strong,  so  fierce  and  merciless 
in  their  strength.  Once  they  had  flung  her  in  the 
dust.  She  had  lain  there  for  a  moment  of  incredible 
humiliation,  feeling;  as  if  she  could  never!  again 
arise  and  look  the  world  in  the  face.  And  she  had 


304  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

found  salve  for  her  wounds  in  Paul's  love.  Paul's 
love  had  healed  her  with  a  beautiful  tenderness, 
evoking  her  passionate  gratitude.  She  could  never 
be  grateful  enough  to  Paul. 

But  if  the  national  crisis,  the  presence  of  a  hither- 
to unimagined  peril  had  served  to  slacken  Lady 
Pallant's  scruples,  it  had  only  intensified  Gillian's. 
She  fought  against  them,  believing  that  as  she  had 
conquered  them  before  so  she  would  conquer  them 
now.  Paul  was  hers — hers  to  love  and  marry. 
Every  day  of  tragic  anxiety  made  him  seem  more 
passionately  hers.  It  was  not  the  moment  to  think 
of  offering  sacrifice  before  that  altar  which  once 
had  seemed  to  claim  its  human  victim.  .  .  . 

Gillian  sat  down  and  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Paul 
to  tell  him  of  his  mother's  visit.  He  would,  she 
knew,  be  delighted  to  hear  of  it.  Although  he  had 
been  doggedly  determined  to  oppose  her  in  this  mat- 
ter of  his  marriage  he  had  been  deeply  wounded  by 
her  hostile  attitude.  But  there  was  one  thing  she 
did  not  mention — that  final  appeal  of  Lady  Pallant's 
that  when  he  did  return  home  he  should  not  be 
denied.  About  their  future  marriage  Gillian  said 
nothing.  She  seemed  to  be  groping  in  darkness, 
trying  with  helpless  hands  to  push  apart  the  dark 
clouds  that  enveloped  her.  For  once  she  had  looked 
upon  the  light  that  lay  beyond,  and  it  had  threatened 
to  dazzle  and  blind  her  eyes  with  its  fierce  and 
cruel  brilliancy.  .  .  .  She  craved  only  for  a  dim 
twilight  safe  and  secure,  where  she  might  go  hand 
in  hand  with  Paul. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IT  was  a  wet  warm  evening  in  October.  Road  and 
pavement  were  shining  black  with  rain.  Over- 
head the  clouds  travelled  swiftly,  pushed  on  their 
way  by  a  westerly  wind  that  threatened  to  become 
a  gale  as  night  advanced. 

The  tense  sense  of  expectancy  still  reigned  in  a 
London  that  strained  its  ears  only  to  hear  the  boom- 
ing of  the  guns  in  Flanders  and  in  France.  In  the 
last  few  weeks  it  had  seemed  as  if  all  the  horrible 
prophecies  of  past  years,  proclaimed  in  book,  pam- 
phlet, and  novel,  had  materialised,  become  incarnate, 
with  grim  and  deadly  fulfilment. 

Gillian  had  not  been  out  all  day.  It  was  one  of 
those  days  when  she  preferred  to  remain  restlessly 
indoors.  Throughout  the  day  a  succession  of  news- 
papers was  brought  to  her;  she  read  each  one  super- 
ficially, glanced  at  the  telegrams,  at  the  awful  lists, 
and  then  flung  them  aside.  Life  was  horrible.  She 
envied  Joan  her  capacity  for  work;  she  envied  even 
Amaryllis  for  all  that  the  future  held  for  her.  .  .  . 

After  tea  when  it  was  growing  dusk  and  the  lamps 
were  already  lit  she  put  on  a  coat  and  hat  and  went 
down  the  garden  path  to  the  gate.  She  could  see 
the  lights  gleaming  on  the  Embankment  with  a  sub- 
dued and  altered  brilliancy;  there  was  something 
furtive  about  London  now,  she  thought,  as  of  a  city 
trying  to  hide  its  own  immensity.  The  wind  blew 
in  her  face  as  she  stood  there  irresolutely;  then  she 
closed  the  gate  behind  her  and  walked  quickly  west- 
ward. 

Once  in  her  walks  she  had  passed  a  little  Catholic 
church  hidden  away  down  a  small  street ;  it  occurred 
to  her  now  that  she  would  like  to  go  there  and  pray. 
Lately  she  had  been  afraid  to  pray.  She  felt  as  if 

305 


306  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

that  fierce,  hidden,  interior  rebellion  of  hers  must 
militate  against  the  efficacy  of  those  prayers. 

It  was  a  poor  little  church;  the  pictures  were 
modern;  the  statues  tawdry  and  ill-coloured.  The 
building  was  almost  in  darkness,  except  for  the  red 
lamp  burning  before  the  Tabernacle  and  some 
candles  that  were  fixed  on  to  a  triangular  stand  be- 
fore a  statue  of  Our  Lady.  There  was  little  here 
to  appeal  to  the  senses,  to  the  eye.  Yet,  as  Gillian 
entered,  a  sense  of  oppression,  of  suffocation  that 
was  not  altogether  physical,  came  over  her.  She 
crept  into  one  of  the  back  benches  and  kneeling  down 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

No  service  was  in  progress,  but  quite  a  number  of 
people  were  kneeling  there  in  prayer.  There  were 
men  as  well  as  women,  young  as  well  as  old.  Some- 
times could  be  heard  across  the  deep  and  reverent 
silence  a  half-suppressed  sob.  The  candles  burning 
before  Our  Lady's  altar  made  a  little  patch  of  light 
in  the  twilight  gloom;  the  effect  was  almost  abrupt. 
.  .  .  As  Gillian  knelt  there  she  deliberately 
yielded  herself  to  those  influences  which  she  had 
once  known  in  the  Lower  Church  at  Assisi.  She  saw 
again  the  immense  cool  grey  spaces  of  the  Basilica 
with  its  glimpses  of  delicate  and  subdued  gold  show- 
ing themselves  from  the  haloes  of  frescoed  Madon* 
nas  and  saints  and  angels  in  a  jewel-like  beauty. 
She  could  hear  the  monotonous  burring  of  the  friars 
as  they  chanted  their  office — a  sound  like  the  hum- 
ming of  innumerable  bees.  Here  there  was  nothing 
of  beauty  to  make  its  appeal  to  the  eye.  The  bare 
walls  of  the  little  church  seemed  to  reveal  a  humble 
but  proud  poverty.  The  flowers  on  the  altar  were 
of  a  cheap  and  common  kind,  and  they  were  even 
supplemented  by  artificial  ones  of  rather  a  dreadful 
appearance.  Gillian  scarcely  noticed  these  details 
in  that  moment  when  she  lifted  her  head  and  made 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  307 

a  brief  survey  of  her  surroundings.  But  she  looked 
more  attentively  and  with  a  little  wonder  at  those 
other  worshippers.  Probably  the  majority  of  them 
were  Catholics,  and  if  so  it  was  possible  that  across 
their  passionate  prayers  could  be  heard  that  most 
poignant  and  necessary  one  of  all :  Fiat  voluntas  tua. 
But  her  attention  was  not  long  diverted  from  the 
urgent  business  she  had  in  hand.  She  knew  that 
she  had  come  here  to-night  for  a  definite  purpose, 
and  it  must  be  accomplished.  Every  soul  has  its 
Hour  in  the  Garden,  when  only  submission  and  re- 
nunciation can  avail.  .  .  . 

There  was  no  long  space  of  time  between  her  and 
that  evening  at  Assisi.  The  past  stretched  out  hands 
and  touched  the  present,  as  if  it  were  clasping  it. 
Gillian  was  merged  once  more  in  that  hour  of  sur- 
render and  submission,  complete,  unquestioning  as 
a  child's.  And  to  her  heart,  strangely  stirred  within 
her  and  alert  to  receive  impressions,  there  came  a 
thought,  a  conviction  of  more  than  vital  significance. 
She  felt  that  she  was  not  only  the  suppliant  but  the 
one  to  whom  a  mystic  supplication  was  being  mad$. 
She  felt  as  if  a  Voice  from  the  tabernacle  were  call- 
ing to  her  audibly,  actually;  pleading  with  her  for 
that  surrender  which  she  had  for  so  long  consciously 
and  defiantly  withheld  and  withdrawn.  .  .  . 

All  capacity  for  vocal  prayer  seemed  to  leave  her 
then.  She  was  immersed  once  more  in  those  waves, 
but  they  were  not,  as  they  had  once  been  at  Assisi, 
wild,  stormy,  and  overwhelming  ones.  They  were 
suave  and  gentle  and  welcoming,  and  lifted  her 
above  the  fret  of  earthly  happenings.  She  saw  as 
it  were  in  that  hour  her  own  soul  and  Paul's — things 
of  flame,  white,  ardent,  eternal.  And  there  was 
born  within  her  a  new  and  deep  sense  of  respon- 
sibility towards  Paul.  He  was  hers,  to  raise  up.  .  .  . 
to  drag  down.  .  .  .  She  loved  him,  but  she  had 


3o8  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

come  in  contact  with  a  Power  greater  than  human 
love,  a  Supreme  Power,  jealous,  imperious,  that  de- 
manded the  surrender  of  her  whole  self  in  one  single 
act  of  sacrifice  and  renouncement.  It  was  claiming 
possession  of  her,  but  not  fiercely  and  violently,  only 
as  it  were  with  a  persistent  and  irresistible  appeal 
.  .  .  as  of  one  who  should  call  a  reluctant  child 
gently  and  persuasively,  but  leaving  it  quite  free  to 
follow  or  not  if  it  chose.  Must  it  be  always  that 
those  with  great  possessions  should  ever  be  the  most 
reluctant  to  lay  them  down — the  most  sorrowful  in 
yielding  to  the  Voice  of  the  Beloved?  Oh,  how 
much  better  to  lay  them  willingly  at  the  Wounded 
Feet,  and  follow,  free  and  detached  and  unbur- 
dened I  .  .  . 

As  this  knowledge  filled  Gillian's  thoughts  she 
found  that  earthly  claims  were  growing  sensibly 
weakened.  The  act  of  unquestioning  surrender  to 
the  Divine  Will,  which  she  had  made  almost  uncon- 
sciously, had  brought  the  immediate  and  direct  grace 
of  an  increased  strength.  She  felt  no  longer  isolated 
and  broken-hearted  but  supported  and  infinitely  con- 
soled. She  had  flung  down  her  nets,  and  had  risen 
to  follow.  .  .  .  She  had  willingly  placed  herself 
in  those  Hands  which  desired  to  shape  and  fashion 
her  anew.  And  instead  of  the  torment  and  suffering 
she  had  experienced  at  Assisi  she  was  sensible  of  that 
healing  touch  which  soothes  even  while  it  exquisitely 
wounds.  .  .  .  Gillian  was  beyond  all  resistance. 
It  seemed  to  her  then  that  her  whole  life  had  been 
tending  towards  the  immense  act  of  voluntary  resig- 
nation that  was  now  so  inevitable,  so  essential,  so 
inescapable.  Everything  had  crystallised  towards 
this  central  point.  The  way  thither  had  been  paved 
with  sharp  swords  that  had  cruelly  hurt  her  feet. 
But  each  sword  had  possessed  an  immense  signifi- 
cance and  meaning;  not  one  had  been  unnecessary  or 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  309 

superfluous.  In  this  hour  of  renewed  and  intensified 
illumination  she  saw  that  she  had  been  guided  step 
by  step,  personally,  individually.  Her  first  rough 
awakening  had  been  when  Giacomo  had  pitilessly 
broken  off  their  engagement.  It  had  been  cruelly 
done,  but  she  had  not  been  able  to  blind  herself  to 
the  urgency  of  his  motives.  Then  had  come  Assisi 
and  the  chance  stranger,  Ian  Frazer,  who  had  sup- 
plemented so  much  of  her  little  knowledge,  had  flung 
the  searchlight  of  truth  upon  dark  places.  Yes, 
that  had  been  one  of  the  swords  that  had  hurt  her 
most,  with  its  strong  effort  to  deprive  the  future  of 
human  happiness.  .  .  . 

For  the  rest  there  had  been  no  human  agency  at 
work  to  persuade,  to  compel.  She  had  seemed  in 
these  last  weeks  quite  alone,  almost  bitterly  alone. 
Tormented  with  anxiety  and  suspense,  the  unrest  of 
her  own  heart  had  been  perhaps  the  most  unbearable 
thing  of  all.  That  spiritual  unrest  gave  her  little 
peace ;  it  left  her  always  with  the  sense  as  of  a  task 
unaccomplished.  Even  now  the  utter  dying  down  of 
rebellion,  the  complete  unquestioning  surrender,  had 
not  destroyed  her  terror  of  the  step  involved  and 
of  the  pain  it  could  inflict.  For  it  was  on  the  face 
of  it  an  irrevocable  one.  There  could  be  no  going 
back,  no  recrudescence  of  defiance.  And  with  her 
fear  there  was  paradoxically  a  fury  to  accomplish 
this  thing  which  she  still  dreaded  although  she  pas- 
sionately desired  it.  Definite  and  certain  beyond 
all  the  confused  issues  that  spun  webs  in  her  mind 
there  stood  out  the  fact  that  she  must  become  a 
Catholic.  She  must  openly  profess  the  faith  she 
had  received.  She  must  herself  raise  the  barrier, 
obdurate,  impassable,  permanent,  that  was  to  divide 
herself  from  Paul.  Paul  was  her  "great  posses- 
sion," more  dear,  more  precious,  than  any  tem- 
poral possession  of  wealth  could  ever  be.  He  was 


310  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

to  her  all  that  made  life  worth  the  living.  This  love 
stood  out  as  true  in  the  midst  of  the  false  gods  of 
the  past.  It  was  a  possession  whose  worth  she  dared 
not  measure,  and  once  the  thought  of  it  had  caused 
her  to  turn  sorrowfully  away  in  the  face  of  the 
divine  appeal.  She  must  herself  take  the  sword  and 
pierce  her  own  heart  as  well  as  Paul's. 

When  Gillian  rose  and  left  the  church  she  genu- 
flected as  she  had  seen  other  people  do,  she  even 
dipped  her  hand  into  the  stoup  of  holy  water  and 
crossed  herself.  These  little  actions  seemed  to  set 
a  kind  of  seal  upon  her  resolve,  linking  her  with 
those  other  worshippers,  making  her  prayers  one 
with  theirs.  As  she  walked  westward  towards  her 
home  she  could  feel  the  rain  and  wind  beating  softly 
in  her  face.  The  night  promised  to  be  wild  as  well 
as  wet,  but  the  air  was  warm  and  reviving.  Just  at 
the  end  of  the  street  a  tall  figure  emerged  suddenly 
from  the  gloom.  Gillian  looked  up  and  was  scarcely 
surprised  to  find  herself  face  to  face  with  Ian  Frazer. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Driscoll?  _  What  luck!"  he  said 
eagerly.  "I've  been  wondering  how  I  could  get  news 
of  you.  You  went  away  giving  me  no  address,  and 
I've  often  wondered  how  you  were  faring  in  these 
ill  days." 

"I've  been  faring — like  every  one  else,"  said 
Gillian,  with  a  wan  smile. 

"You're  very  thin,"  he  said  abruptly,  looking  down 
at  the  slight  black  figure. 

"Am  I?  But  the  kind  of  thing  we've  been  living 
through  lately  isn't  very  fattening." 

"You're  not  married?"  he  hazarded,  wondering 
a  little  that  despite  her  thinness,  her  look  almost  of 
illness,  Gillian's  face  should  be  so  full  of  a  subdued 
and  triumphant  happiness. 

"No,  I'm  not  married."    She  paused.    "I  am  en- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 
gaged  to  my  cousin  Paul  Pallant.     He  is  in  France 


now." 


He  made  no  comment  on  the  information  thus 
vouchsafed  except  to  say, 

"Where  I  shall  be  myself  soon,  I  hope." 
"You?"     She  looked  at  him  in  some  surprise. 

"Yes,  I  came  back  as  soon  as  I  could — and  it 
wasn't  an  easy  job,  I  can  tell  you — and  I've  been 
putting  my  house  in  order.  To-morrow  I  shall  en- 
list, unless  they  think  me  too  much  of  a  crock,  which 
isn't  likely!" 

"Ah,  it's  all  so  easy  and  simple  for  a  man,"  said 
Gillian  almost  enviously. 

"Well,  I  think  myself  it's  easier." 

"Won't  you  come  back  with  me  now?"  said  Gil- 
lian. "I  live  not  far  from  here.  Perhaps  you  will 
stay  to  dinner  with  me?  There  isn't  much  to  eat, 
but  it's  war-time,  so  you  mustn't  mind." 

"I'll  come  with  pleasure,"  he  answered. 

"Because  there  is  something  I  want  very  particu- 
larly to  say  to  you,"  she  said. 

"Is  there?"  he  said,  wondering  what  it  could  be 
and  whether  it  would  satisfactorily  explain  that  ex- 
traordinary, illuminative  radiance  which  had  seemed 
to  him  to  inform  her  face  just  now. 

"I  think  of  almost  all  the  people  in  the  world  you 
were  the  one  I  most  wanted  to  see  just  now " 

"Oh,  but  that's  awfully  flattering  to  me,  you 
know,"  he  said,  smiling.  "I'm  quite  keen  to  know 
what  it's  about." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  till  they  reached  Gil- 
lian's green  gate.  She  stopped,  took  out  a  key  and 
unlocked  it,  disclosing  the  little  white  house  that 
stood  at  the  other  end  of  the  flagged  path. 

"Looks  like  a  little  Italian  villino,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  doesn't  it?    And  there  are  vines  too,  but 


3i2  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

they  don't  ripen.  I  think  unripe  grapes  look  so  mel- 
ancholy." She  led  the  way  into  the  house. 

She  left  Ian  Frazer  in  the  drawing  room  while 
she  went  upstairs  and  slipped  on  a  black  tea-gown 
very  simply  made.  He  was  sitting  over  the  fire 
idly  glancing  at  the  newspapers  when  she  rejoined 
him.  He  looked  up  as  she  entered  the  room. 

"How  are  your  friends,  the  Porters?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  hadn't  you  heard?  Ammy  is  Mrs.  Sprot 
now,  they  were  married  just  a  few  days  before  the 
war,  and  he  was  killed  last  month.  Isn't  it  cruel?" 

"Very  cruel.  How  is  she  bearing  it?  She  was 
made  of  good  stuff — she  had  any  amount  of  pluck." 

"Oh,  she's  bearing  it  simply  beautifully,"  said 
Gillian  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "She  was  devoted  to 
him,  you  know.  And  she's  had  letters — such  letters 
— telling  her  how  splendid  he  was.  I  suppose  the 
same  thing  could  be  said  of  them  all  out  there.  Such 
courage,  such  forgetfulness  of  self,  such  indifference 
to  personal  danger." 

"How  changed  everything  is  from  a  year  ago," 
he  said  thoughtfully.  "I've  only  been  back  a  week, 
and  it  takes  a  little  time  to  get  accustomed.  France 
is  even  more  changed — you  feel  there  that  you're  up 
against  the  real  thing.  I've  been  working  for  the 
Red  Cross  in  Paris,  but  lately  I  didn't  feel  I  was  do- 
ing enough.  When  I  go  back  to  France  it'll  be  to 
the  trenches." 

She  waited  until  the  dinner  was  over  before  she 
attempted  to  tell  Ian  Frazer  why  she  had  wished  to 
see  him  so  particularly  this  evening  that  his  coming 
had  seemed  almost  providential.  It  was  a  little  diffi- 
cult to  approach  the  subject  and  he  did  not  try  to 
give  her  a  lead.  After  what  she  had  just  told  him 
of  her  engagement  she  could  have  no  news  to  give 
him  that  would  tell  him  his  prayers  for  her  had  been 
answered.  Indeed  he  had  felt  a  little  shocked  and 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  313 

bewildered  at  her  simple  announcement  of  her  en- 
gagement to  one  who  she  knew  held  very  decided 
views  on  the  subject  of  her  re-marriage. 

She  took  up  some  sewing  after  dinner  while  he  lit 
a  cigarette  and  began  to  smoke.  Presently  she 
looked  up  and  said: 

"You  have  never  congratulated  me." 

"No,"  he  said  roughly,  "you  could  hardly  expect 
that,  could  you?  You  can't  have  forgotten  what  I 
said  to  you  on  the  subject  at  Assisi." 

"No,  I  haven't  forgotten,"  said  Gillian,  very  tran- 
quilly. 

She  looked  at  him.  His  fine  fair  face  was  singu- 
larly immovable ;  it  had  grown  in  the  interim  a  little 
harder  and  more  relentless. 

"I  wonder  you  even  troubled  to  tell  me  about  it," 
he  said. 

"I  told  you,"  said  Gillian,  "because  when  I  met 
you  to-night  I  had  just  come  to  a  decision — a  very 
difficult  decision.  I  wanted  your  help." 

"My  help?''  he  echoed  astonished. 

"When  I  was  at  Assisi,"  she  pursued,  still  in  that 
calm  voice.  "I  saw  quite  clearly  that  I  oughtn't  to 
marry  again.  I  had  learnt  several  hard  lessons  while 
I  was  in  Italy.  But  I  rebelled  against  that  one.  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  if  Paul  again  asked  me  to  be 
he  wife  I  would  marry  him  at  all  costs.  I  felt  that 
I  had  been  cheated  of  so  much  that  I  had  a  right  to 
that  happiness.  Almost  directly  after  I  came  home 
I  saw  Paul  and  he  asked  me  to  marry  him.  He  had 
loved  me,  he  said,  since  I  was  a  girl.  I  told  him 
about  my  engagement  in  Rome  and  why  it  was 
broken  off.  Even  when  he  found  that  his  mother 
refused  to  receive  me  it  made  no  difference  to  him. 
I  knew  I  could  always  count  on  his  love  for  me — 
on  his  fidelity.  Paul  is  just  like  a  rock — nothing  can 
change  him.  I  knew  I  should  feel  secure  and  safe  as 


3H  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

his  wife."  She  paused  and  her  dark  eyes  regarded 
him  steadfastly.  "But  I  have  never  felt  at  peace  in 
my  soul,"  she  continued  presently.  "I  knew  ever 
since  I  first  became  engaged  to  him  that  I  ought  to 
be  a  Catholic  and  that  in  resisting  this  duty  I  was 
wilfully  and  deliberately  fighting  against  God.  I 
couldn't  plead  ignorance  any  more,  but  I  was  de- 
termined to  marry  him.  I  felt  an  almost  fierce  and 
violent  determination,  because  I  felt  that  I  had  been 
cheated  in  the  past!" 

Ian  Frazer  listened  in  silence.  He  shrank  a  little 
before  this  relentless  confession,  feeling  perhaps  that 
he  had  little  right  to  listen.  Only — had  she  not  said 
that  he  could  help  her? 

"I  wanted  to  pray  for  Paul,"  she  went  on,  still 
in  those  quiet,  level,  emotionless  tones,  "but  I  could 
not  pray  for  him.  I  felt  that  I  had  no  right  to  pray, 
that  my  prayers  did  not  deserve  to  be  heard.  Some- 
times I  remembered  what  you  told  me  once — that 
the  Catholic  does  not  know  any  happiness  apart 
from  conformity  to  the  Divine  Will.  That  to  sep- 
arate oneself  from  God  by  wilful  and  premeditated 
sin  is  the  one  unhappiness.  To-night  I  have  learned 
that  I  cannot  so  separate  myself.  When  you  met  me 
I  was  coming  away  from  a  Catholic  church.  I  had 
been  there  to  pray.  And  when  I  was  there  I  felt 
that  not  only  was  I  asking  something  from  God  but 
that  He  was  asking  something  from  me." 

Now  he  knew  why  her  face  had  seemed  to  him  al- 
most as  if  it  were  transfigured,  illuminated. 

"And  you,"  he  said  slowly,  searching  her  face 
with  eyes  that  held  the  sharp  glint  of  a  sword,  "you 
have  given  what  was  asked  of  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  have  given  it.  I  want  you  to 
help  me  to  give  it  more  completely.  I  am  not  bound 
yet."  She  looked  at  him  with  unflinching  eyes. 
"Help  me  to  bind  myself." 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  315 

"Do  you  know  what  it  means — what  it  involves?" 
he  said  to  her  sternly.  "Have  you  counted  the 
cost?" 

"I  have  counted  the  cost." 

"And  this  man — this  man  who  you  say  loves 
you?" 

"I  am  responsible  for  his  soul  as  well  as  for  my 
own.  Do  not  make  any  mistake,  Mr.  Frazer.  I 
love  him — it  was  my  love  for  him  that  made  me 
rebel.  But  this  is  something  stronger  than  even 
my  love " 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  thought  you  could  tell  me  of  a  priest  who  could 
help  me.  Isn't  the  first  thing  for  me  to  learn  to 
be  a  Catholic?  I  don't  want  to  delay." 

She  seemed  to  him  as  one  who  goes  forward  will- 
ingly, even  gladly,  to  martyrdom.  But  the  evidence 
of  past  suffering  was  in  her  eyes.  She  had  never 
seemed  noble  to  him  before;  now  he  could  have 
knelt  at  her  feet.  Once  he  had  prayed  for  this  soul 
so  bent  on  elusion  and  evasion,  now  he  could  scarce- 
ly bear  to  look  upon  the  hurt  heart  of  her.  And  she 
was  not  a  child  who  renounces  without  knowledge; 
she  knew  well  the  measure  and  worth  and  meaning 
of  the  things  she  was  giving  up. 

"I  will  speak  to  a  priest — a  friend  of  mine,"  he 
said.  "I  think  perhaps  he  would  help  you  better 
than  any  one.  Be  as  frank  with  him  as  you  have  been 
with  me."  He  stood  up.  He  felt  that  he  must  go' 
away;  that  he  must  leave  her.  "Good-night,  Mrs. 
Driscoll.  I  will  write  to-morrow " 

He  put  out  his  hand.    Gillian  took  it  in  hers. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  she  said.  "I  knew  you 
would  help  me.  You  seemed  to  me  very  cruel  at 
Assisi — you  hurt  me  very  much.  But  now  I  am 
grateful  for  that  hard  saying."  Her  eyes  met  his 
frankly.  "Pray  for  me." 


316  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"Always — always,"  said  Ian  Frazer  earnestly. 
"The  hardest  part  still  lies  in  front  of  me,"  she 
said. 

He  knew  she  was  thinking  of  Paul. 

"Strength  will  be  given  to  you,"  he  said  quietly. 

He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

DURING  the  next  few  weeks  Gillian  spent  the 
greater  part  of  each  afternoon  with  Amaryllis. 
Every  morning  she  went  to  a  convent  not  far  from 
her  own  house  where  she  had  placed  herself  under 
instruction  at  the  hands  of  a  nun  who  had  been 
recommended  to  her  by  the  priest  to  whom  Ian 
Frazer  had  introduced  her.  Gillian  followed  this 
course  of  instruction  very  devoutly  and  submissive- 
ly; she  was  indeed  like  a  child  in  the  hands  of  her" 
new  director,  and  she  liked  the  nun  to  whom  the  task 
of  teaching  her  had  been  entrusted.  There  had 
been  a  certain  precocity  about  her  spiritual  growth, 
the  result  of  the  rather  unusual  circumstances  which 
had  promoted  it,  but  so  far  she  had  very  little  real 
and  solid  knowledge  of  the  faith.  It  had  been  a 
disappointment  to  her  to  find  that  she  could  not  be 
received  into  the  Church  immediately  and  without 
delay.  Gillian  was  always  rather  precipitate  in  her 
actions;  she  liked  to  move  forward  on  the  wings  of 
the  first  buoyant  impulse.  But  she  was  no  longer  her 
own  master.  She  was  obliged  to  obey,  and  she  sur- 
rendered herself  to  the  task  of  learning  with  a  curi- 
ous and  submissive  eagerness.  Her  intention  was 
a  profound  secret,  known  only  to  herself,  her  in- 
structors, and  Ian  Frazer. 

That  trustiest  of  trusty  friends  had  enlisted,  and 
was  doing  his  training  in  the  Artists'  Rifles  as  a 
simple  private.  Before  leaving  town  he  had  paid 
a  farewell  visit  to  Gillian. 

"Well,  how  are  you  getting  on?"  he  asked  her. 

"It  isn't  easy,"  she  confessed,  "and  there's  a  lot 
to  learn.  And  when  I  think  about  the  future  .  .  . 
it  hurts." 

His  face  was  grim  as  he  answered  her. 
317 


318  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"Of  course  it  hurts  to  be  beaten  into  a  new  shape." 

"I  wish  the  awful  part  were  over  .  .  .  and  that 
Paul  knew." 

"Don't  be  too  much  afraid.  You  don't  realise  yet 
what  help  you  will  have.  This  time  of  probation  is 
awfully  trying  for  you." 

"Supposing  I  find  that  I  can't  persevere?" 

"You  must  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  you've 
put  your  hand  to  the  plough  and  you  wouldn't  go 
back  now  if  you  could!" 

His  hard  bright  eyes  softened  a  little. 

But  in  spite  of  his  hopeful  words  there  were  hours 
in  those  solitary  evenings  spent  alone  when  she  did 
deliberately  envisage  what  the  future  held  for  her, 
when  she  did  shrink  a  little  from  the  prospect  of- 
fered. She  counted  the  cost,  and  knew  that  she  was 
called  upon  to  make  no  small  payment.  She  was 
sorrowful  as  she  thought  of  her  great  possessions. 
Paul's  letters,  beautiful  tender  letters,  made  her 
tremble  for  her  own  perseverance. 

There  was,  however,  no  real  hesitation  on  her 
part  after  the  momentous  night  when  her  final  de- 
cision had  been  made.  That  vision  she  had  had  of 
Paul's  soul — hers  to  make  or  mar — had  left  a  per- 
manent impression  as  of  a  printed  picture  upon  her 
mind.  She  saw  it  in  reference  to  the  Eternity  to 
which  it  belonged.  It  was  precious  because  of  its 
very  immortality,  because  of  its  immortal  rights. 
.  .  .  And  she  felt  in  a  certain  sense  responsible 
for  it. 

She  and  Amaryllis  were  close  friends,  but  Gillian 
had  never  mentioned  her  resolve  to  her.  She  guessed 
that  Amaryllis  with  her  calm  commonplace  outlook 
would  have  but  little  sympathy  with  violent  and  com- 
plicated spiritual  questions.  The  crisis  through 
which  she  had  passed  was  not  a  thing  which  could 
be  very  well  understood  by  Amaryllis.  Gillian 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  319 

hardly  knew  if  she  perfectly  understood  it  herself 
when  she  reviewed  it  in  the  cold  light  of  reason. 
Although  she  had  submitted  generously  to  that  new 
shaping  she  felt  the  sharp  pain  and  hurt  of  it  in  every 
nerve.  She  had  hoped  that  sense  of  spiritual  exal- 
tation would  have  deprived  her  of  the  suffering  en- 
gendered. But  she  was  learning  that  she  was  to  be 
spared  nothing  of  pain.  .  .  . 

It  cheered  her  in  a  sense  to  be  with  Amaryllis.  It 
was  Mrs.Sprot's  brave  endurance,  her  refusal  to  give 
way,  that  appealed  to  her  with  its  frank  courage.  A 
day  seldom  passed  but  the  two  women  met.  By  a 
kind  of  tacit  consent  Paul's  name  was  never  men- 
tioned. Gillian  had  never  been  over-anxious  to  dis- 
cuss her  engagement,  and  now  she  displayed  even 
less  desire  to  speak  of  him.  She  had  told  Amaryllis 
of  her  meeting  with  Ian  Frazer,  and  when  she  in- 
formed her  that  he  had  enlisted,  Mrs.  Sprot  made  a 
characteristic  comment:  "He  isn't  one  who'd  be 
likely  to  suffer  from  cold  feet!" 

Amaryllis  in  spite  of  her  resolves  had  fallen  into 
a  weak  ailing  condition  of  health.  The  tree  that 
refuses  to  bend  before  the  storm  too  often  snaps  in 
two.  Amaryllis,  brave,  enduring,  unbending,  show- 
ing always  a  brave  face  to  the  world,  became  so  ill 
physically  that  she  was  compelled  to  remain  in  bed. 
Lying  there  very  white  with  great  blue  eyes  that  had 
somehow  become  too  large  for  her  face,  she  looked 
a  shadow  of  her  former  buoyant  self.  Gillian  was 
really  anxious  about  her.  She  spent  a  great  deal  of 
her  time  in  Albemarle  Street,  and  kept  her  friend's 
room  cheerful  and  bright  with  fresh  flowers.  Ama- 
ryllis seldom  now  mentioned  her  young  dead  hus- 
band; it  was  of  the  coming  child  that  she  spoke 
continually. 

"Gillian,  you're  late  this  evening.    I  expected  you 


320  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

to  tea,"  was  Amaryllis'  greeting  one  evening  in  No- 
vember. "And  I  can't  ask  you  to  dine  up  here  with 
me  in  my  bedroom." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  have  stayed,  thank  you,  Ammy." 
Gillian  came  across  the  room  and  kissed  Mrs.  Sprot 
as  she  lay  there.  "I'm  sorry  I'm  so  late,  but  I've  had 
a  very  long  day." 

Amaryllis  stretched  out  a  brown  hand  that  had  be- 
come woefully  thin  and  looked  incapable  of  wielding 
a  golf-club,  and  switched  on  the  electric  light  that 
was  by  her  bedside.  "There — that's  better,"  she 
remarked,  "I  can  see  you  now,  Jill.  Why — what's 
happened?  Have  you  had  good  news?  Is — is  Cap- 
tain Pallant  coming  back?" 

"I — I  haven't  had  any  news  at  all,"  said  Gillian 
slowly,  looking  at  her.  "But,  Ammy — I  have  got 
something  to  tell  you.  It's  a  very  great  secret  and 
just  at  present  no  one  must  know  it.  I've  taken  a 
very  important  step  to-day — one  that  is  going  to 
change  my  whole  life." 

"Has  Captain  Pallant  come  back?  Have  you 
married  him?"  cried  Amaryllis  breathlessly. 

Was  it  only  her  fancy  or  did  a  shadow  pass  swiftly 
across  Gillian's  face  at  the  mention  of  Paul?  Why 
was  she  always  so  curiously  silent  and  reserved  upon 
the  subject  of  Paul  Pallant? 

Amaryllis  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  her  cheeks  flushed, 
her  eyes  shining  like  flames. 

"Dear,  dear  Jill — do  tell  me  1"  she  cried. 

"It  is  nothing  half  so  thrilling  as  that,"  said 
Gillian  thoughtfully.  "I'm  afraid  you  will  be  disap- 
pointed when  you  hear  it,  Ammy.  I  can  never  marry 
Paul  now.  What  I  have  done  to-day  has  made  it 
quite  impossible.  I  have  known  for  some  time  past 
that  I  couldn't  marry  him — that  is  why  I  haven't 
talked  about  him.  ..." 

"Do  you  mean  you've  married  some  one  else?" 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  321 

cried  Amaryllis  in  a  tone  of  incredulous  amazement. 
Somehow  it  had  never  entered  her  head  to  question 
Gillian's  feeling  for  Paul.  "Or— has  he  ?" 

Gillian  shook  her  head.     "Oh  no — it  isn't  that." 

"Have  you  broken  off  your  engagement?"  de- 
manded Amaryllis. 

"I  haven't  done  so  yet,"  answered  Gillian;  "that'll 
be  the  hard  part." 

"Oh  Jill — how  changeable  you  arel  Why,  I 
thought  you  adored  him !" 

"It  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  love  for  him,"  said 
Gillian,  almost  as  if  she  were  speaking  to  herself, 
"except  that  I  think  I  love  him  more  than  I  did — if 
that  were  possible." 

She  saw  again  the  silver  reaches  of  the  river  with 
its  groups  of  willow  trees,  its  blossoming  banks;  she 
saw  herself  again  in  those  twilit  shadows  listening  to 
Paul's  voice,  feeling  the  touch  of  his  hands,  of  his 
kiss.  .  .  .  Had  she  not  told  him  then  that  nothing 
could  ever  come  between  them  and  their  love  for 
each  other?  And  he  had  been  the  one  to  doubt — to 
be  afraid.  .  .  . 

"Then  what  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Jill?"  cried 
Amaryllis,  "or  have  you  gone  stark,  staring  mad?" 

"I  have  become  a  Catholic,  Ammy,"  said  Gillian 
quietly.  "I  was  received  into  the  Church  this  morn- 
ing. As  a  Catholic  I  cannot  marry  again  as  long  as 
Aylmer  is  alive.  It's  my  own  doing  that  I've  sep- 
arated myself  from  Paul." 

Ammy's  excited,  brilliant  eyes  searched  Gillian's 
face  with  a  look  of  almost  fierce  anger. 

"Oh,  how  could  you  be  so  wicked — so  cruel — so 
selfish  wow?" 

Gillian  winced  and  turned  pale.  She  had  not  ex- 
pected this  immediate  and  furious  condemnation. 

"If  you  had  cared  for  him  at  all  you  would  have 
put  him  first, — before  everything!"  pursued  Ama- 
ryllis remorselessly. 


322  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"And  if  I  tell  you  that  I  have  put  him  first?" 

"What — by  chucking  him  now?" 

Gillian  was  silent.  Would  all  the  world  blame 
her?  Would  all  the  world,  including  Paul,  under- 
stand her  as  little  as  did  Amaryllis?  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Sprot  continued  to  speak  excitedly: 

"I  wasn't  sure  when  we  were  at  Assisi  that  you 
weren't  beginning  to  get  these  notions  into  your  head. 
Only  I  thought  you  were  too  hard-headed  not  to  be 
quite  safe !  You  used  to  spend  such  an  unconscion- 
able time  in  the  Lower  Church,  or  out  with  Mr. 
Frazer,  who  is  of  course  a  fanatic  and  wants  to  con- 
vert every  one!  Is  it  Mr.  Frazer's  doing,  Jill?" 

"No — it  isn't  any  one's  doing  but  my  own.  I  had 
begun  to  think  about  it  before  I  went  to  Assisi — 
before  I  left  Rome.  It  was  brought  almost  violently 
to  my  notice  while  I  was  there.  Mr.  Frazer  did  try 
and  teach  me  when  I  was  at  Assisi,  and  I  began  to 
learn  .  .  .  and  then  I  rebelled  and  made  up  my  mind 
to  come  home  and  marry  Paul.  Oh,  I  had  resolved 
to  defy  that  other  teaching.  Don't  blame  me, 
Ammy.  It  hasn't  been  easy.  I  didn't  tell  you  till 
after  I  had  taken  the  step  because  I  knew  all  the 
arguments  you  would  use.  I  haven't  told  any  one 
yet,  and  I  don't  want  any  one  else  to  know  until  I 
have  told  Paul." 

"I  don't  envy  you  the  job  of  telling  Captain  Pal- 
lant,"  said  Ammy  with  a  touch  of  her  old  boyish 
brusquerie.  "How  shall  you  do  it?  You  won't 
write,  of  course — it  wouldn't  be  a  very  encouraging 
kind  of  letter  to  receive  in  the  trenches.  It  might 
make  him  think  there  were  worse  places  than  the 
firing  line !" 

"Oh,  don't,  Ammy,"  said  Gillian  pitifully.  "Of 
course  I  can't  write  it.  But  there's  a  chance  of  his 
coming  home  on  leave." 

"When  he  will  probably  be  counting  upon  having 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  323 

the  wedding  at  once,"  said  Amaryllis  mercilessly. 
"Jill,  I  simply  can't  understand  you.  You  look 'so 
soft  and  in  reality  you  are  hard  as  nails !  But  per- 
haps you  never  cared  for  him,  and  you've  taken  this 
short  cut  out  of  a  difficult  situation.  I  dare  say  that 
explanation  will  occur  to  him  too."  Mrs.  Sprot's 
words  were  harsh,  condemning.  "You  never  could 
have  loved  him,  Jill — it's  quite  out  of  the  question." 

Gillian  left  Amaryllis  that  evening  feeling  utterly 
miserable;  she  was  indeed  thankful  when  she  could 
escape  from  Albemarle  Street  and  return  to  the  soli- 
tude of  her  own  home.  She  wished  she  had  not 
spoilt  the  day,  which  had  been  for  her  such  a  thrilling 
and  beautiful  one,  by  going  to  see  her  friend  and  con- 
fiding the  secret  to  her.  Now  she  felt  that  Paul  as 
little  as  Ammy  would  be  able  to  understand  her  mo- 
tive. He  also  would  imagine  that  she  had  never 
cared,  and  that  repenting  of  her  promise  to  marry 
him  she  had  taken  the  path  that  promised  a  perma- 
nent escape.  She  had  never  felt  any  heroism  or 
exaltation  or  spiritual  pride  in  her  act  of  renuncia- 
tion ;  she  had  simply  succumbed  to  forces  that  were 
stronger  than  herself ;  she  had  scarcely  even  stopped 
to  ask  herself  whether  she  had  emerged  from  that 
tremendous  conflict  the  victor  or  the  vanquished. 
The  struggle  had  left  its  exhausting  physical  effects 
upon  her,  just  as  if  she  had  been  beaten  to  her  knees. 
And  now  Ammy  had  relentlessly  shown  her  exactly 
what  the  world  would  think  of  her  action.  Ammy 
represented  the  sane,  normal,  worldly  point  of  view 
which  takes  little  cognisance  of  complicated  spiritual 
questions.  And  it  was  thus  perhaps  she  would  be 
judged  by  Paul. 

He  would  think  her  capricious  and  vacillating,  and 
fickle.  He  would  remember  her  extreme  reluctance 
to  bind  herself  to  any  engagement;  he  had  always 
been  aware  of  her  hesitation,  and  she  had  given  him 


324  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

no  clue  as  to  the  reason  of  it.  Now  he  would  only 
suppose,  as  Ammy  did,  that  her  love  had  failed.  She 
despaired  of  making  him  understand. 

But  solitude  was  to  be  denied  to  her  this  evening. 
As  she  opened  the  garden  gate  and  walked  quickly  up 
the  little  flagged  pathway  she  noticed  that  there  was 
a  light  in  the  drawing-room ;  she  could  see  it  shining 
through  the  blinds  that  were  drawn  across  the  win- 
dow. At  the  door  she  paused  for  a  moment,  won- 
dering who  could  have  come  to  see  her  at  this  hour. 
She  had  so  few  friends  who  intruded  upon  her  at 
unconventional  hours.  Unnerved,  she  could  almost 
have  persuaded  herself  that  Paul  had  returned  and 
was  waiting  for  her  there;  the  thought  made  her 
tremble  a  little.  Overhead  the  leafless  trees  lifted 
boughs  that  seemed  like  waving  arms  against  the 
uniform  and  starless  gloom  of  the  night  sky.  Al- 
though it  was  so  quiet  in  the  little  Chelsea  garden 
she  seemed  to  sense  the  throbbing  pulse  of  the  great 
city  that  lay  at  her  doors.  She  could  hear  as  it  were 
the  beating  of  that  great  heart,  that  seemed  to-night 
to  hold  a  sound  as  of  tears  ...  as  of  many  tears  .  .  . 
as  of  Rachel  weeping  anew  for  her  children.  .  .  . 

Gillian  turned  the  key  in  the  door  and  quietly 
entered  the  hall.  Beside  the  fire  in  the  drawing-room 
she  beheld  Lady  Pallant  reading  the  evening  papers, 
and  evidently  awaiting  her  return. 

Lady  Pallant  rose  and  approached  Gillian  eagerly, 
almost  effusively. 

"My  dear — such  a  joyful  surprise!  I've  had  a 
telegram  from  Paul  saying  he  will  be  home  early  in 
the  week.  I  see  there  is  one  for  you,  too — perhaps 
that  is  from  Paul." 

Gillian  then  noticed  for  the  first  time  the  buff- 
colored  envelope  lying  on  the  table.  She  took  it  up 
and  opened  it  with  fingers  that  shook  and  trembled. 
A  mist  swam  before  her  eyes  and  she  could  not  at 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  325 

first  read  the  words.  When  at  last  she  was  able  to 
make  them  out  she  felt  as  if  they  conveyed  no  signi- 
fication at  all  to  her  brain.  "Returning  Monday, 
week's  leave.  Please  make  arrangements  for  our 
immediate  marriage." 

The  pinkish  slip  of  paper  fell  to  the  ground,  and 
Gillian  did  not  attempt  to  pick  it  up.  She  stood  there 
facing  Lady  Pallant,  trying  to  smile  and  aware  that 
it  was  an  impossible  feat  to  accomplish. 

Struck  by  her  white  and  frightened  look  Lady 
Pallant  exclaimed : 

"My  dearest  Gillian — I  am  sorry  I  told  you  so 
abruptly  ...  it  has  been  too  much  for  you.  Do  sit 
down  here  and  I  will  ring  for  some  water  for  you." 

She  thought  to  herself:  "Gillian  never  used  to  be 
so  nervous.  The  war  is  destroying  all  our  nerves. . . . 
Still,  she  ought  to  be  careful  not  to  give  way." 

Gillian  sat  down  on  the  sofa  and  obediently  drank 
some  water  from  the  glass  Lady  Pallant  held  to  her 
lips. 

When  at  last  she  was  able  to  speak  the  words  came 
wildly : 

"Oh,  you  must  stop  him  I  Don't  let  him  come. . . . 
I  can't  marry  him !" 

Lady  Pallant  was  for  a  moment  speechless  with 
a  very  natural  amazement.  What  in  the  world  did 
Gillian  mean?  Why  did  she  receive  news  that  was 
so  joyful  in  this  fashion?  Her  astonishment  over, 
she  felt  more  than  a  little  annoyed. 

"Dear  Gillian — I  know  you  are  feeling  unstrung. 
We  have  all  been  going  through  a  time  of  terrible 
anxiety.  One  is  really  quite  afraid  of  any  happiness. 
But  in  this  matter  may  I  say  that  I  hope  you  will  do 
whatever  Paul  wishes?  If  he  wants  to  have  the 
wedding  at  once  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  you  will 
not  refuse.  I  take  back  all  my  opposition,  my  objec- 
tions. I  only  ask  you  to  make  my  son  happy " 


326  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

Her  words,  which  sounded  even  to  herself  a  little 
magnanimous,  fell  meaninglessly  on  Mrs.  Driscoll's 
ears.  She  said  only:  "It  is  too  late  .  .  .  it  is  too 
late  ...  I  can't  marry  him."  Her  voice  trailed 
weakly  over  these  broken  sentences. 

Lady  Pallant  began  to  fear  a  little  for  Gillian's 
sanity.  A  dreadful  misgiving  seemed  to  take  posses- 
sion of  her  heart.  What  did  Mrs.  Driscoll  mean  by 
saying  it  was  too  late?  Why  did  she  reiterate  the 
assertion  that  she  could  not  marry  Paul?  She  had 
hoped  at  first  that  the  words  were  only  the  outcome 
of  a  little  hysterical  nervousness,  very  naturally  pro- 
duced by  the  sudden  unexpected  news  of  Paul's  re- 
turn. But  Gillian  had  uttered  them  as  if  they  were 
informed  with  some  definite  and  sinister  truth.  Yet 
if  she  had  not  intended  to  marry  Paul,  why  had  she 
waited  to  say  so  until  the  question  of  their  marriage 
had  become  a  matter  for  immediate  decision? 

Gillian  pointed  with  her  finger  to  the  fallen  tele- 
gram, as  if  indicating  by  this  gesture  her  desire  that 
Lady  Pallant  should  also  become  acquainted  with  its 
contents.  That  lady,  nothing  loth,  stooped  and 
picked  it  up.  She  glanced  at  it  hastily.  Then  she 
said  in  a  very  firm  tone  as  if  she  were  speaking  to  a 
recalcitrant  child: 

"I  am  sure  when  you  have  recovered  from  the 
shock  you  will  see  how  more  than  unkind  it  would 
be  to  Paul  to  make  him  the  victim  of  any  capricious 
feeling  just  now.  Our  men  require  all  the  help  we 
can  give  them.  You  must  remember  that  your  are 
his  promised  wife,  and  I  hope  you  will  yield  to  his 
wishes.  He  is  not  a  man  that  will  stand  being  played 
fast  and  loose  with!" 

The  words  were  intended  doubtless  to  have  a 
bracing  effect,  to  bring  Gillian  to  her  senses,  and  for 
the  moment  the  rather  authoritative  little  speech  did 
help  her  to  control  her  shattered  nerves.  That  feel- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  327 

ing  of  sudden  faintness,  so  terrifying  to  one  unused 
to  it,  had  passed  away.  Gillian  was  able  to  raise  her 
eyes  that  were  still  unnaturally  bright  and  answer  al- 
most calmly : 

"I  am  sorry,  Cousin  Janet  ...  to  have  been  so 
foolish.  Please  forgive  me.  The  sudden  news  upset 

me.  As  you  say — the  war — one's  nerves "  She 

broke  off,  for  the  lump  in  her  throat  threatened  to 
choke  her. 

"That's  right,  my  dear,"  said  Lady  Pallant  en- 
couragingly. "I  knew  you  would  agree  with  me  that 
this  isn't  the  moment  to  think  of  one's  own  feelings. 
It  is  a  time  when  we  have  need  of  all  our  unselfish- 
ness. Paul  has  been  through  a  very  arduous  time  and 
he  has  a  right  to  be  considered.  If  I  can  be  of  any 
assistance " 

But  Gillian  only  shrank  a  little  away  and  an- 
swered : 

"Oh  no,  thank  you,  Cousin  Janet.  I  can't  really 
decide  anything  at  all  until  I've  seen  Paul  again." 

Lady  Pallant  went  away  feeling  a  little  worried 
about  Gillian,  and  acknowledging  to  herself  that  she 
was  utterly  in  the  dark.  She  had  expected  her  to 
maintain  her  usual  calmness;  she  had  awaited  no 
extravagant  manifestation  of  joy  or  emotion — that 
was  not  Mrs.  Driscoll's  way.  She  was  much  too 
sophisticated  to  betray  her  feelings  even  to  the 
mother  of  the  man  she  was  engaged  to  marry.  Still 
Lady  Pallant  had  expected  her  to  receive  the  news 
with  some  sign  of  pleasure  and  perhaps  relief.  But 
Gillian  had  shown  no  such  sign.  She  had  been  over- 
come, overwhelmed,  almost  to  the  point  of  fainting, 
but  through  her  broken  utterances  there  seemed  to 
run  a  thread  of  live  fear.  And  though  she  had  at 
last  pulled  herself  together,  not  without  a  very  ob- 
vious effort,  it  had  been  only  to  control  most  assidu- 
ously any  further  display  of  feeling.  She  had 


328  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

attempted  no  explanation  of  her  first  attitude,  nor 
had  she  proclaimed  any  intention  of  marrying  Paul 
upon  his  return.  It  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that 
Lady  Pallant  should  feel  dissatisfied  and  a  little  anx- 
ious and  irritable.  She  wished  she  had  not  invited 
Joan  to  dinner.  It  had  been  her  intention  to  invite 
Gillian  also,  to  have  a  cosy  little  family  party  to 
celebrate  the  joyful  news  of  Paul's  forthcoming  re- 
turn. .  .  .  Now  she  felt  that  she  did  not  at  all  wish 
to  expose  herself  to  the  cross-examination  to  which 
Joan  would  inevitably  subject  her. 

"Why,  I  thought  you  meant  to  bring  Jill  back  with 
you,"  was  Joan's  greeting  as  her  mother  entered  the 
drawing-room  unaccompanied.  "Why  couldn't  she 
come?" 

"I  ...  I  forgot  to  ask  her,"  replied  Lady  Pallant, 
sinking  into  a  chair  in  an  attitude  suggesting  exhaus- 
tion. During  that  hectic  interview  with  Gillian  she 
had  utterly  forgotten  her  intention  of  inviting  her  to 
dinner. 

Joan  looked  frankly  puzzled. 

"But  you  saw  her?  You  found  her  in?"  she  ques- 
tioned. "She  never  goes  anywhere  nowadays  except 
to  see  her  dear  Mrs.  Sprot!" 

"Yes,  I  saw  her,"  said  Lady  Pallant  almost  reluc- 
tantly. What  account  could  she  give  Joan  of  the 
interview? 

"Had  she  heard?" 

"She  found  the  telegram  when  she  came  in.  She 
wasn't  at  home  when  I  first  got  there — I  suppose  she 
had  gone  to  see  Mrs.  Sprot.  I  was  waiting  for  her. 
I  told  her  the  news  first — before  she  opened  her  own 
telegram.  ..." 

Joan  looked  at  her  mother  curiously. 

"You  didn't  renew  your  old  objections,  did  you, 
mother?"  she  inquired.  "Paul  wouldn't  thank  you  if 
you  put  a  spoke  in  his  wheel  at  the  eleventh  hour  1" 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  329 

Joan's  manner  was  disagreeably  assertive  and  dis- 
dainful. 

"On  the  contrary  I  told  her  quite  plainly  that  I 
withdrew  all  my  old  objections  and  opposition,"  she 
answered. 

"Then  what's  the  matter?"  said  Joan. 

Lady  Pallant  had  risen  wearily  and  was  moving 
towards  the  door  as  if  to  escape  from  her  daughter's 
censorious  examination.  But  she  stopped  half  way 
and  the  two  women  stood  and  faced  each  other. 
Under  the  sharp  glare  of  the  electric  light  Lady 
Pallant's  face  looked  a  little  aged  and  agitated. 

"It's  Gillian,"  she  said,  "I  don't  understand  what's 
come  to  Gillian.  She  seemed  so  dreadfully  upset 
when  she  heard  the  news.  She  never  used  to  be  at  all 
hysterical,  but  I  assure  you  she  spoke  very  wildly 
indeed.  It  is  Gillian  I'm  not  sure  of "  She  fin- 
ished the  sentence  abruptly. 

The  mother  and  daughter  stared  helplessly  at  each 
other  in  silence.  ... 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

GILLIAN  lay  awake  that  night  unable  to  sleep.  She 
pictured  Paul's  return  until  it  assumed  the  pro- 
portions of  a  nightmare.  If  only  his  telegram  had 
not  come  just  that  day — the  very  day  of  her  recep- 
tion into  the  Church.  She  had  wished  to  set  it  apart, 
to  consecrate  it,  to  her  new  and  high  resolve,  to  gain 
from  it  all  the  strength  and  courage  she  could  where- 
with to  face  the  future.  Instead  of  which  after  a 
few  short  hours  of  rest  and  peace  she  had  been 
roughly  compelled  to  envisage  close  at  hand  and  with 
no  merciful  perspective  of  distance  the  consequences 
that  must  inevitably  ensue.  Ammy's  words  had 
caused  the  first  shadow,  so  much  so  that  she  had 
quickly  repented  of  her  impulse  to  confide  in  her. 
Hard  upon  the  consciousness  that  she  had  accom- 
plished the  difficult  task  that  had  been  so  clearly 
indicated  to  her  by  such  a  multiplicity  of  signs,  had 
come  the  necessity  of  adjusting  her  future  life  in  ac- 
cordance with  its  harsh  demands.  She  had  herself 
raised  the  barrier  between  herself  and  Paul,  but  his 
presence  was  the  one  thing  she  feared.  She  knew 
of  old  its  power  to  weaken  her  resolve. 

It  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  courage  must  give  way; 
she  longed  to  escape  to  some  place  where  she  might 
never  see  him  again.  She  told  herself  she  could  not 
face  so  soon  a  meeting  with  him.  She  wondered  why 
she  had  so  little  strength  to  endure  the  first  sharp 
plunge  of  the  knife  into  her  heart.  She  had  counted 
upon  some  miraculous  supernatural  strength,  and  in- 
stead of  this  there  had  come  upon  her  a  new  and 
increased  desolation.  She  felt  horribly  alone.  And 
what  seemed  to  her  the  worst  thing  of  all  was  her 
utter  inability  to  pray,  to  derive  any  consolation  or 
comfort  from  that  spiritual  gain  of  hers.  All  sen- 

330 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  331 

sible  supernatural  comfort  had  been  so  completely 
withdrawn  that  she  could  almost  have  believed  she 
had  never  known  it  at  all.  She  had  been  warned  of 
that  almost  inevitable  "dryness"  which  comes  to  even 
the  most  devout  souls,  and  of  the  fiery  trial  which  it 
offers.  But  she  had  not  thought  to  find  herself  so 
suddenly  aghast  at  her  own  action.  She  felt  cold, 
trembling,  and  frightened.  She  seemed  to  have  gone 
forward  quite  heedlessly  all  these  past  weeks,  tem- 
porarily indifferent  and  even  blind  to  the  conse- 
quences which  must  wait  upon  her  action.  Now  she 
had  the  feeling  of  being  flung  back  roughly  and  vio- 
lently to  earth,  to  shift  for  herself  in  a  position  of 
unprecedented  difficulty,  with  an  increased  power  of 
suffering  and  a  diminished  physical  strength.  .  .  . 

Paul  was  coming  back  and  there  was  only  one 
thing  she  could  tell  him. 

In  the  days  that  followed  Gillian  closed  her  doors 
upon  the  Pallant  family.  She  was  always  out  when 
they  called.  She  would  not  risk  the  possibility  of 
another  breakdown  before  Lady  Pallant;  she  wanted 
to  keep  her  in  the  dark  as  to  the  real  state  of  affairs 
until  she  had  herself  told  Paul  the  truth.  No  idle 
rumor  must  reach  his  ears  beforehand.  She  reserved 
to  herself  the  right  of  telling  him.  It  would  have 
been  the  action  of  a  coward  to  try  and  escape  that 
task.  From  Joan's  callous  criticisms  and  question- 
ing she  shrank  even  more.  She  refused  to  see  either 
mother  or  daughter,  leaving  them  to  draw  what  con- 
clusions they  might. 

She  sent  a  little  note  to  Belgrave  Square  so  that 
Paul  might  receive  it  immediately  upon  his  return. 
It  was  quite  ordinary  and  non-committal,  asking  him 
to  come  and  see  her  as  soon  as  he  could.  She  made 
no  reference  to  their  marriage,  hoping  this  omission 
might  strike  him  as  curious  and  perhaps  prepare  him 
a  little. 


332  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

She  had  declined  Lady  Pallant's  invitation  to 
luncheon,  and  to  accompany  them  to  the  station 
afterwards  to  meet  Paul.  She  preferred,  she  wrote, 
that  he  should  come  and  see  her,  adding  that  she  dis- 
liked intensely  waiting  about  in  cold  stations  for 
trains  that  were  always  late.  Lady  Pallant  consid- 
ered that  this  excuse  betrayed  more  common  sense 
than  ardour.  Joan  made  an  adverse  comment:  "I 
don't  believe  she  cares  a  straw  about  him.  She's 
only  marrying  him  to  rehabilitate  herself.  Of  course 
it  is  an  awful  position  for  a  young  woman  like  Jill. 
But  she's  too  nervy  ever  to  make  a  good  wife." 

Joan's  novel  characteristics  included  a  robust  rea- 
sonableness. She  was  extremely  impatient  with  any 
display  of  nerves  or  temperament.  Lady  Pallant 
thought  she  was  growing  more  like  Alastair  every 
day.  It  was  wonderful  how  rapidly  she  had  assim- 
ilated his  points  of  view. 

Lady  Pallant  and  Joan  were  standing  on  the  plat- 
form when  Paul's  train  came  in.  In  the  crowd  of 
khaki-clad  men  that  emerged  from  the  quickly 
opened  doors  it  was  at  first  a  little  difficult  to  dis- 
cover him.  Little  was  said  until  they  found  them- 
selves in  the  motor  on  their  way  back  to  Belgrave 
Square.  They  had  only  just  time  to  exchange  em- 
braces and  words  of  greeting.  But  both  his  mother 
and  sister  had  noticed  that  he  had  turned  his  head 
quickly  as  if  to  see  if  Gillian  were  with  them,  and 
though  his  face  expressed  no  disappointment  he  be- 
came suddenly  silent. 

In  the  motor  Lady  Pallant  put  Gillian's  note  into 
his  hand.  She  watched  him  as  he  tore  it  open  and 
glanced  at  its  contents.  He  thrust  it  into  his  pocket 
without  further  comment.  But  it  seemed  to  his  mother 
that  having  read  it  his  expression  became  slightly 
more  gloomy.  She  glanced  at  him  furtively  every 
now  and  then.  Evidently  he  was  pre-occupied,  and 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  333 

she  guessed  that  all  his  thoughts  were  rigidly  con- 
centrated upon  Gillian.  It  re-assured  her  to  see  that 
he  looked  in  excellent  health,  in  spite  of  the  countless 
privations  through  which  he  must  have  passed.  He 
had  been  gone  rather  more  than  three  months,  and 
he  was  now  so  sunburnt  from  exposure  that  he  had 
utterly  lost  that  characteristically  black  and  white 
effect;  his  pallor  was  concealed  beneath  this  new 
dark  tint,  and  he  looked  consequently  less  delicate. 
But  his  eyes  with  their  heavy  lids  and  dark  rings 
were  slightly  more  hollow,  and  held  a  new  restless 
expression. 

"Paul  is  more  than  ever  packed  up,"  was  Joan's 
inward  comment  on  the  chill  coldness  of  his  reserve 
and  manner. 

"I  was  with  Gillian  when  she  received  your  tele- 
gram," said  Lady  Pallant,  anxious  to  show  him  in- 
directly that  she  was  on  terms  of  friendship  once 
more  with  Mrs.  Driscoll. 

He  frowned  a  little,  too  proud  to  question. 

"Oh,  were  you?"  he  said  carelessly. 

"She  said  it  was  impossible  to  make  any  arrange- 
ments until  she'd  seen  you." 

His  face  lightened  a  little. 

"I  suppose  you  will  go  there  at  once?" 

"As  soon  as  I've  had  a  clean-up." 

He  felt  ill,  choked  with  suspense.  That  note  had 
said  so  little — so  little. 

"I  am  afraid  you'll  find  Gillian  nervous,"  pursued 
Lady  Pallant — "nervous  and  unstrung." 

She  wanted  to  prepare  him  for  a  mood  of  per- 
haps unconscionable  caprice. 

"No  wonder!"  thrust  in  Joan,  "she  does  noth- 
ing— absolutely  nothing  from  morning  till  night  I  I 
couldn't  get  her  to  join  a  single  one  of  my  commit- 
tees. As  far  as  I  can  see  she  isn't  interested  in  any 
of  the  war  charities." 


334  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

He  remarked  quietly,  "I've  never  regarded  Jill 
as  an  example  of  boisterous  activity.  She's  not  that 
type."  A  gleam  of  the  old  sarcasm  flashed  in  his 
eyes.  Yet  even  he,  unacquainted  with  the  march  of 
events,  felt  a  slight  astonishment  at  his  sister's  frank 
criticism  of  her  ancient  idol. 

"There  is  a  medium  between  boisterous  activity 

and  absolute  indolence,"  said  Joan  tartly.    "Alastair 

* 


But  Paul  was  looking  out  of  the  window  and  by 
the  absent  look  in  his  face  she  perceived  with  some 
mortification  that  he  was  not  paying  the  slightest 
attention  to  her.  The  ipse  dixit  of  Alastair  left  him 
obviously  quite  cold.  She  said,  nose  in  air  : 

"Of  course  if  you  can  get  her  out  of  that  apathetic 
state  you'll  be  doing  her  an  immense  service  1" 

Nervous,  apathetic,  unstrung,  indolent.  ...  In  turn 
they  had  applied  these  adjectives  to  Gillian  Driscoll 
as  if  to  try  and  prepare  him  for  some  perceptible 
and  untoward  change  in  her.  He  pondered  over 
them  in  silence.  For  Joan's  criticisms  and  opinions 
he  had  nothing  but  contempt,  and  yet  these  epithets 
served  to  deepen  the  fears  that  lay  around  his  heart 
like  a  wall  of  ice  —  fears  that  had  been  engendered 
by  everv  letter  he  had  received  of  late  from  Gillian 
Driscoll.  Had  the  pendulum  swung  back  again  — 
this  time  not  in  his  favour?  If  so  there  would  be 
little  time  in  one  week's  leave  to  woo  and  win  her 
over  again.  So  far  he  had  always  been  ultimately 
successful  in  imposing  his  will  upon  hers,  but  in- 
variably there  had  been  some  initial  difficulty,  some 
hesitancy  of  hers  to  be  broken  down,  some  unex- 
pressed objection  to  be  conquered.  He  had  hoped 
and  hoped  that  this  time  she  would  yield  to  his  en- 
treaties, his  prayers,  and  marry  him  before  he  re- 
turned to  France.  He  wanted  to  feel  that  she  was 
indeed  his,  his  own  wife  bearing  his  name,  before 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  335 

he  went  back  to  those  scenes  across  the  Channel — 
scenes  of  which  he  was  resolved  never  to  speak  to 
her. 

Instinctively  he  dreaded  that  first  sight  of  her. 
.  . .  There  had  been  nothing  in  the  speeches  of  Lady 
Pallant  and  Joan  to  reassure  him. 

It  was  dark  when  he  drove  up  to  the  green  gate 
that  soon  swung  back  to  admit  him  when  he  had 
rung  the  bell.  He  stumbled  up  the  flagged  path- 
way and  saw  that  a  light  was  shining  in  the  hall  and 
that  a  maid  was  waiting  on  the  threshold  to  admit 
him.  He  was  evidently  expected,  and  was  shown 
into  the  drawing-room  without  delay. 

There  was  no  one  there,  and  in  spite  of  the 
warmth  of  the  room  he  felt  a  sudden  chill  sense  of 
disappointment.  He  had  hoped  to  find  Gillian  wait- 
ing for  him.  It  seemed  that  he  had  waited  so  long 
he  could  not  endure  these  few  unnecessary  last  mo- 
ments of  suspense ;  they  were  intolerable.  Then  he 
glanced  round  the  room.  A  bright  fire  blazed  on 
the  hearth.  On  a  little  table  were  books  and  news- 
papers, slightly  disordered  as  if  they  had  only  re- 
cently been  abandoned.  He  saw  and  recognised 
lying  there  Gillian's  little  blue  silk  work-bag.  This 
intimate  possession  of  hers  spoke  to  him  eloquently 
of  her;  he  took  it  up  and  kissed  it.  Oh,  why  was 
she  not  there?  Why  did  she  not  come  down?  His 
heart  was  crying  out  for  her.  .  .  . 

Ten  minutes  passed.  Gillian  upstairs  was  on  her 
knees  praying;  she  felt  incapable  of  rising  and  going 
down  now  that  she  knew  Paul  had  indeed  arrived. 
Paul  wandered  restlessly  around  the  little  room, 
examining  the  pictures  quite  mechanically,  looking 
at  the  photographs,  the  titles  of  the  books.  Not  one 
of  them  made  the  slightest  impression  on  his  mind 
and  memory.  Under  pain  of  death  he  could  never 


336  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

afterwards  have  given  any  account  of  them.  Why 
did  she  not  come? 

The  door  opened  at  last  to  admit  her.  Paul  had 
been  prepared  for  a  change — all  women  were 
changed,  it  seemed  to  him,  though  perhaps  not  to 
the  point  of  such  a  complete  metamorphosis  as  Joan  I 
Even  his  mother  had  acquired  new  and  less  arbitrary 
standpoints  in  the  great  upheaval.  But  this  change 
was  physical.  Gillian  was  very  pale;  her  thinness 
bordered  on  emaciation,  she  looked  ill,  and  as  if 
she  had  not  slept.  He  had  often  assured  himself 
that  she  could  never  be  as  beautiful  in  reality  as  in 
those  visualised  presentments  of  her  when  she  had 
seemed  to  haunt  his  trench  and  make  it  the  loveliest 
place  in  the  world.  Now  he  told  himself  that  she 
was  infinitely  more  beautiful  than  any  of  those  exqui- 
site and  imagined  visions  had  ever  been.  .  .  .  He 
went  up  to  her  with  eyes  shining  and  arms  held  out. 
And  across  his  joy  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  stood 
there  like  a  cold  and  unresponsive  statue,  neither 
encouraging  nor  repulsing  that  embrace.  His  lips 
touched  hers — there  was  again  that  simple  acquies- 
cence and  submission  to  the  caress  proffered.  She 
did  not  speak  nor  smile,  and  if  any  one  had  told 
him  that  this  was  not  Gillian  but  some  pale  revenant 
masquerading  in  her  guise  he  would  have  had  little 
difficulty  in  believing  them. 

"Jill  •  •  •  Jill  ...  my  dear  ...  my  darling,"  he 
said. 

There  was  no  use  in  delay ;  he  must  know  the  best 
or  the  worst  at  once.  His  days  in  England  were 
numbered. 

"Jill,"  he  whispered,  "will  you  marry  me  this 
week?" 

His  voice  was  stern  now  and  not  tender;  it  was 
controlled  and  steady  and  authoritative.  There  was 
much  more  demand  than  entreaty  in  his  tone.  But 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  337 

it  awoke  Gillian  from  her  lifelessness.  She  freed 
herself  from  his  clasp  and  moved  a  little  away  from 
him. 

"I  shall  never  marry  you,  Paul,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  tense  pause.  Under  the  tan  of  the 
sunburn  Paul's  face  was  livid. 

"You  don't  mean  it — you  can't  mean  it,  Jill,  my 
darling!  You  can't  break  my  heart  now." 

He  came  over  and  knelt  at  her  feet,  kissing 
them.  .  .  . 

"Paul — don't  kneel.  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you.  Oh,  try  and  listen  and  bear  it  ...  and  don't 
reproach  me !" 

His  words,  his  touch  had  diminished  her  vitality; 
she  felt  almost  faint  as  she  had  done  when  she  had 
first  heard  the  news  of  his  approaching  return.  Her 
very  life  seemed  to  be  ebbing  from  her.  Can  a  heart 
bleed  to  death  inwardly  she  wondered?  For  that 
was  the  impression  she  had  now  of  her  own  heart 
in  its  fierce  pain.  .  .  . 

"You  don't  love  me  then?"  he  said.  His  eyes 
were  sunken,  lustreless.  "You've  never  loved  me? 
Is  that  what  you're  trying  to  tell  me?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  love  you,  Paul,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  love  you 
more  than  anything  in  the  world.  But  it  is  impos- 
sible for  me  to  marry  you  now — for  a  reason  I  am 
going  to  tell  you."  She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that 
held  a  sadness  beyond  all  words.  "I  have  no  right 
to  take  what  you  offer  me — I  have  never  had  the 
right.  I  have  been  fighting  against  God."  She  put 
out  both  hands  and  held  his  as  if  she  were  clinging 
to  him  for  that  human  support  needed  on  account 
of  her  curiously  diminishing  physical  energy.  Yet 
even  in  that  moment  of  weakness  the  strength  of  her 
new  purpose  seemed  to  have  increased  immeasurably. 
"I  have  become  a  Catholic,  Paul.  I  have  been  fight- 


338  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

ing  against  it  all  these  weeks  and  months.  I  could 
not  believe  that  God  really  required  all  the  sacrifice 
of  my  happiness — I  could  not  believe  that  with 
my  own  hands  I  was  called  upon  to  build  this  barrier 
between  us.  Then  one  night  suddenly — I  was  pray- 
ing, and  I  knew  that  these  things  were  required  of 
me,  and  for  your  sake  as  well  as  my  own." 

But  Paul  stood  there  looking  at  her  silent  and 
speechless.  He  told  himself  that  this  thing  had 
always  been  between  them  ever  since  her  return  from 
Italy  in  the  summer,  and  that  even  in  the  early  days 
of  their  engagement  it  had  divided  them.  He  had 
been  sensible  always  of  some  withdrawal  in  Gillian, 
of  some  place  in  her  heart  which  he  in  spite  of  all 
his  great  love  had  failed  to  occupy;  of  some  influence 
which  from  the  first  had  been  sharply  militating 
against  that  love.  .  .  . 

"Does  that  mean,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  you  can 
never  marry  me?" 

"While  Aylmer  is  alive — never." 

He  had  the  sense  of  a  loss  so  great  that  it  utterly 
shattered  and  destroyed  all  other  issues.  He  had 
lost  Gillian,  and  he  felt  that  it  had  happened  in  the 
moment  when  he  was  least  able  to  bear  it,  when 
such  a  calamity  could  produce  within  his  heart  the 
maximum  of  pain.  He  had  lost  her.  .  .  .  Yet  in 
strange  contradiction  he  had  never  before  felt  so 
completely  convinced  of  her  love,  as  in  this  moment 
when  she  definitely  set  aside  its  claims.  She  was  suf- 
fering too.  He  felt  the  presence  within  her  of  some- 
thing spiritually  triumphant  and  magnificent. 

"Did  you  do  this,"  he  said  at  last  in  a  strange 
hoarse  tone,  "because  you  were  afraid  of  the  risk 
for  me?" 

"For  you — for  me — for  us  both,"  she  answered 
tranquilly. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  339 

He  felt  her  tears  dropping  on  his  hands;  they 
were,  he  thought,  as  warm  drops  of  blood. 

She  added  quietly,  "If  you  knew  all  that  I  know 
you  would  understand  that  I  am  offering  you  a  final 
proof  of  my  love." 

She  was  grateful  to  him  that  he  made  no  violent 
outcry  against  the  fate  she  had  imposed  upon  him — 
that  he  made  in  fine  no  attempt  at  argument,  recrim- 
ination, reproach.  Deeply  rooted  in  his  nature  there 
was  an  unselfishness  that  triumphed  now.  He  could 
not  war  against  that  delicate  conscience  of  hers.  If 
this  thing  gave  her  happiness,  let  her  have  it  at  what- 
ever cost.  But  he  knew  that  it  was  not  a  question 
of  mere  happiness.  It  lay  quite  beyond  and  outside 
of  human  issues.  Even  if  they  had  married  it  would 
certainly  have  arisen  to  divide  them.  Had  she  not 
said  that  she  had  fought  against  it?  Paul  was  not 
a  man  to  think  lightly  of  spiritual  issues.  In  the  life 
and  death  conflict  in  which  he  had  been  engaged  of 
late,  his  reverence  for  them  had  been  immensely 
strengthened. 

He  put  out  his  arms  and  drew  Gillian  to  him ;  his 
lips  touched  hers.  "Dear  Jill,"  he  said  brokenly — 
"dear  Jill,  I  know  you  haven't  done  this  hastily  or 
unadvisedly.  I  have  felt  there  was  something  be- 
tween us  all  the  time.  It  is  a  rival  a  man  mustn't 
be  too  jealous  of."  His  eyes  were  very  bright  now; 
they  had  a  look  in  them  as  of  unshed  tears.  "I 
know  I  have  no  other  rival  in  your  heart." 

"You  may  be  sure  of  that — always — always, 
Paul." 

When  he  left  he  turned  back  for  a  second  at  the 
door,  pausing  to  look  at  her  as  if  to  register  that 
last  impression  the  more  perfectly  upon  his  mind 
and  heart.  She  looked  beautiful — more  beautiful 
than  he  had  ever  seen  her,  he  thought;  the  saints  of 
old  must  surely  have  worn  that  mien  as  they  went 


340  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

to  their  martyrdom.  He  felt  more  strongly  and 
deeply  than  ever  before  that  that  outward  beauty 
of  hers  was  but  the  reflection  of  a  spiritual  loveli- 
ness that  had  augmented  and  increased  within  her 
all  these  months  as  she  went  step  by  step  towards 
the  consummation  of  her  sacrifice.  How  could  he 
ever  have  hoped  to  make  her  his — to  imprison  that 
soul  of  hers  in  the  fastnesses  of  an  earthly  love-  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXX 

PAUL  went  straight  up  to  his  room  on  his  return. 
-••  He  felt  so  stunned  and  bewildered  that  he  had 
some  difficulty  in  believing  in  the  reality  of  the  scene 
through  which  he  had  just  passed.  Gillian's  letters 
as  well  as  his  own  formless  fears  and  presentiments 
had,  it  is  true,  prepared  him  for  a  change  in  her, 
but  nothing  had  ever  suggested  that  it  would  be  an 
irremediable  one.  Always  before  his  presence  had 
been  quick  to  re-awaken  within  her  the  love  she  un- 
doubtedly had  for  him;  thus  when  they  were  apart 
he  had  been  able  to  reassure  himself  with  the  con- 
viction of  his  own  power  over  her.  Only  once  or 
twice  had  it  occurred  to  him  that  her  elusiveness  had 
been  founded  upon  something  more  solid  than  mere 
caprice.  Now  she  had  torn  all  the  veils  away.  She 
had  shown  him  the  truth  with  a  splendid  courage. 
For  the  moment  it  had  blinded  him.  Now  with  her 
presence  withdrawn  the  magnitude  of  his  so  sudden 
loss  was  overwhelming. 

He  had  accepted  it  all  very  simply.  He  had  been 
determined  not  to  add  to  the  sum  of  her  suffering 
by  exposing  the  measure  of  his  own.  His  considera- 
tion for  her,  always  meticulously  delicate,  had  spared 
her  as  far  as  possible  all  additional  pain.  Looking 
back  on  their  interview  Paul  was  able  to  assure  him- 
self of  this  with  a  heart-broken  pride.  Gillian  be- 
longed to  him  in  a  manner  and  sense  that  no  human 
tie  could  have  deepened.  And  in  this  case  the  human 
tie,  at  war  with  her  conscience  in  a  dreadful  interior 
conflict,  must  certainly  in  the  end  have  thrust  them 
utterly  apart. 

The  hurt  to  his  pride  was  slighter  than  he  could 
have  imagined  possible,  for  had  he  not  every  possi- 
ble assurance  of  Gillian's  abiding  love?  He  had 

341 


342  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

not  been  dispossessed  by  any  human  rival.  She  had 
succumbed  to  forces  against  which  she  had  for  a 
long  time  and  most  passionately  rebelled.  He  began 
to  wonder  now  why  he  had  felt  so  little  curiosity  as 
to  the  details  of  the  matter;  he  still  had  no  idea 
where  or  when  she  had  been  received  into  the 
Church,  or  by  whom.  He  had  accepted  her  sim- 
ple statement  and  had  not  paused  to  make  any  in- 
quiries. There  was  a  latent  envy  within  him  now 
of  those  unknown  ones  who  had  supported  her,  be- 
friended her,  in  the  hour  of  final  sacrificial  surren- 
der. 

Paul  set  his  teeth  grimly  as  he  went  down  to  din- 
ner that  evening.  He  shrank  from  meeting  his 
mother  and  sister,  aware  that  the  moment  of  their 
enlightenment  could  not  be  delayed.  They  must  be 
prevented  from  discussing  his  approaching  marriage 
with  their  friends,  so  the  sooner  they  knew  the  truth 
the  better.  The  few  days'  leave  that  lay  in  front 
of  him,  which  had  once  seemed  too  short,  too  inad- 
equate to  hold  the  cup  of  so  much  joy,  now  stretched 
out  like  some  grey  vision  of  an  unhappy  eternity. 
He  was  practically  bound  to  spend  the  time  at  home 
in  London  almost  within  sound  and  sight  of  Gillian. 
There  was  torture  in  the  thought.  .  .  .  He  longed  to 
be  back  in  the  thick  of  the  conflict,  working  as  he  had 
never  worked  before.  Nothing  seemed  so  difficult 
as  this  intimate  evening  that  lay  immediately  before 
him. 

Dinner  had  been  fixed  for  half-past  eight,  and  it 
was  understood  that  he  should  be  alone  with  his 
mother  and  sister.  Gillian  had  refused  Lady  Pal- 
lant's  invitation  to  be  present.  His  mothej:  and 
Joan  were  already  in  the  drawing-room  when  he 
appeared  punctually  at  the  half-hour. 

Joan,  attired  in  a  straight  and  simple  black  dress 
of  very  severe  cut — the  erstwhile  loose  and  flowing 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  343 

draperies  a  la  Gillian  having  been  disdainfully  dis- 
carded— looked  up  and  smiled  at  him  as  he  came  in. 
Lady  Pallant,  who  was  writing,  laid  down  "her  pen 
and  said,  "Well,  Paul?" 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her,  then  smiled  at  Joan. 
His  face  was  like  an  iron  mask,  so  rigid  was  its  con- 
trol. He  had  himself  well  in  hand.  But  he  was 
disagreeably  conscious  of  his  sister's  attitude — of 
her  sharp  unsympathetic  curiosity.  Perhaps  neither 
she  nor  his  mother  would  be  extremely  sorry  to  hear 
that  his  engagement  had  been  broken  off  at  the  elev- 
enth hour. 

They  went  down  to  dinner.  At  any  other  time 
Joan's  chatter  would  have  got  on  his  nerves,  now  he 
felt  almost  grateful  to  her  for  dissipating  the  silence 
that  must  otherwise  have  ensued.  He  began  to 
realise  that  Miss  Pallant  and  Mrs.  Grant  were  two 
very  different  people,  and  he  detected  in  Joan's  as- 
sertive conversation  that  she  desired  to  acquaint  him 
with  the  change.  She  wished  him  to  recognise  the 
fact  that  she  had  become  a  very  important  person, 
and  could  no  longer  be  snubbed  and  made  to  appear 
ridiculous. 

It  was  only  when  dessert  was  on  the  table  and  the 
servants  had  left  the  room  that  he  looked  up  and 
said: 

"Gillian  has  definitely  broken  off  our  engagement. 
We  shall  not  be  married "  He  spoke  mechan- 
ically, emotionlessly,  like  one  who  repeats  a  sentence 
he  has  learnt  by  heart. 

But  even  to  his  own  ears  his  voice  sounded  rough 
and  unnaturally  loud. 

Joan  dropped  a  pear  she  was  in  the  act  of  peel- 
ing; Lady  Pallant  put  down  the  glass  of  port  wine 
she  was  just  raising  to  her  lips. 

"I  always  felt  certain  she  would  1"  said  Joan  vin- 
dictively. 


344  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

She  wondered  if  there  would  be  time  to-night  to 
write  and  tell  Alastair  this  important  news. 

"Broken  off  her  engagement?"  cried  Lady  Pal- 
lant.  "Why — what  reason  can  she  have,  after  all 
these  months,  for  treating  you  so — so  infamously?" 

She  remembered  those  sobbing  broken  utterances : 
"Don't  let  him  come.  I  can't  marry  him.  .  .  ." 
What  had  happened?  What  did  it  mean? 

"She  hasn't  married  any  one  else,  has  she?"  cried 
Lady  Pallant,  struck  by  a  sudden  thought.  "Not 
that  Italian  she  got  so  talked  about  with  when  she 
was  in  Rome  last  spring?" 

Paul's  eyes  flashed  with  indignation. 

"That  affair  lasted  only  a  very  short  time.  The 
man  has  since  married  an  American  heiress."  His 
tone  suddenly  became  more  cold  and  temperate. 
"Gillian's  reasons  for  refusing  to  marry  me  are  such 
that  I  have  been  obliged  to  accept  them  without 
remonstrance."  He  glanced  from  one  to  the  other, 
wondering  a  little  at  his  mother's  indignant  aston- 
ishment. She  seemed  to  have  quite  forgotten  her 
own  early  opposition  to  the  proposed  marriage,  and 
to  blame  Gillian  as  deeply  for  breaking  off  the  en- 
gagement as  she  had  originally  blamed  her  for  enter- 
ing upon  it. 

"I  don't  see  what  reason  she  can  possibly  have 
unless  she  has  married  some  one  else,"  said  Joan. 

"She  has  become  a  Catholic,"  said  Paul  gravely; 
"and  as  long  as  Aylmer  Driscoll  is  alive  the  laws  of 
her  Church  forbid  her  to  marry." 

This  second  piece  of  information  startled  them 
even  more  than  the  first.  Joan  was  the  first  to  break 
the  little  pause  that  followed. 

"I  should  have  thought  she  might  have  found  a 
way  of  escape  that  wouldn't  have  entailed  burning 
all  her  boats !"  she  said,  with  a  dry  little  laugh. 

The  taunt  in  her  words  made  Paul  flush  under- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  345 

neath  the  dark  tan  of  his  face,  but  he  did  not  reply. 
This  aspect  of  the  situation  had  never  occurred  to 
him,  nevertheless  he  now  felt  that  it  was  an  interpre- 
tation many  people  might  reasonably  place  upon  Gil- 
lian's action. 

"Gillian — a  Roman  Catholic!"  said  Lady  Pallant 
in  a  shocked  and  pained  voice.  "I  can  hardly  imag- 
ine such  a  thing  to  be  possible.  I  had  no  idea  that 
she  had  any  religious  sense  at  all.  She  never  seemed 
to  care  about  going  to  church.  I  wonder  what  put 
it  into  her  head.  Perhaps — some  one  in  Italy.  .  .  . 
I  always  disapproved  of  such  a  young  woman  going 
off  like  that,  quite  alone,  to  foreign  countries." 

"Oh,  she'll  never  stick  to  it,"  said  Joan,  "Jill 
hates  any  kind  of  discipline.  She  doesn't  know  what 
she's  in  for,  I  am  quite  sure.  It  is  all  part  of  that 
very  excitable,  emotional,  nervous  condition  of  hers. 
It  is  only  a  new  pose." 

"She  had  everything  to  lose  by  taking  such  a  step 
from  a  human  point  of  view,"  said  Paul,  "you  must 
at  least  give  her  that  credit.  And  if  you  see  Gillian 
I  beg  that  you  will  not  reproach  her.  She  has  suf- 
fered very  much." 

"Paul,  how  extraordinary  you  are!  You  actually 
seem  to  approve,"  said  Joan  irritably;  "you  take 
everything  Jill  sees  fit  to  give  you  absolutely  lying 
down!"  Her  voice  held  scorn.  Why  did  he  per- 
mit himself  to  be  treated  thus,  without  remonstrance, 
with  no  display  of  proper  pride?  It  was  inconceiv- 
able that  he  should  endure  with  meekness  the  im- 
mense caprice  of  Gillian! 

"I  do  approve,"  he  said  with  perfect  calmness, 
"as  far  as  I  can  approve  of  her  taking  any  step  that 
has  such  far-reaching  consequences  upon  her  future 
as  well  as  upon  my  own.  But  I  could  never  ask  of 
her  that  she  should  go  against  her  own  conscience 


346  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

in  such  an  important  matter,  even  if  it  were  not  too 
late  for  such  a  demand  to  be  futile." 

What  a  fool  he  was  about  this  woman,  thought 
Joan  with  increased  irritation.  How  blinded  he  was 
by  his  love  for  her !  She  had  played  with  him  as  a 
cat  plays  with  a  mouse.  And  at  the  last  she  had 
thrown  him  over,  and  in  such  a  fashion  that  he  bore 
her  no  ill-will  but  even  defended  her  action,  regard- 
ing it  as  one  imposed  by  her  conscience. 

"I  can't  imagine  why  under  the  circumstances  she 
ever  promised  to  marry  you  at  all,"  said  Lady  Pal- 
lant  severely  ;"she  had  no  scruples  in  the  beginning,  I 
am  quite  sure.  There  must  be  another  motive  behind 
it  all,  Paul — one  that  you  have  never  penetrated," 
Her  words  conveyed  the  belief  that  a  worse  and 
more  violent  awakening  lay  in  front  of  him.  She 
could  not  yet  assimilate  his  view  as  to  the  delicate 
conscience  of  Mrs.  Driscoll.  Gillian  had  caught  him 
originally  with  a  wholly  unscrupulous  dexterity,  well 
aware  how  she  his  mother  would  utterly  disapprove 
of  such  a  marriage  for  her  only  son.  ohe  began  to 
regret  most  bitterly  those  advances  she  had  made  to 
recover  Gillian's  friendship;  she  felt  as  if  she  had 
humbled  herself  for  nothing. 

But  her  words  had  hurt  Paul  deeply.  For  the 
first  time  his  cast-iron  pride  seemed  to  melt  in  the 
face  of  the  attack.  He  looked  at  Joan. 

"Jo,  can't  you  say  something  in  defence  of  your 
old  friend?"  he  pleaded  pitifully. 

Mrs.  Grant  answered  coldly : 

"My  friendship  with  Jill  is  a  thing  of  the  past. 
I  can't  understand  now  how  I  could  ever  have  put 
up  with  her  whims  and  caprices,  I  have  so  little 
patience  with  them  now.  There's  nothing  stable  or 
solid  about  Gillian.  You  can  never  be  sure  of  her 
from  day  to  day."  She  uttered  the  little  condemning 
phrases  without  remorse.  "Everything  with  her  is  a 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  347 

pose.  And  now  that  she  has  treated  you  so  very 
badly  I  shall  never  bother  my  head  about  her  again. 
Alastair  always  said  it  was  a  thousand  pities  you 
should  ever  have  got  engaged  to  herl" 

Joan  knew  she  had  gone  too  far,  but  she  had  prac- 
tically lost  control  of  her  tongue.  It  was  immensely 
agreeable  to  have  this  opportunity  of  enunciating 
her  own  opinion  of  Gillian  to  Paul.  She  revelled  in 
her  little  triumph. 

Paul  did  not  reply.  He  rose  and  without  another 
word  went  out  of  the  room. 

"My  dear — you  shouldn't,"  said  Lady  Pallant  re- 
provingly, "and  his  first  night  at  home  too." 

"But  he  asked  for  it,  didn't  he?"  said  Joan.  "I 
can't  understand  this  new  move  of  Gillian's,  can  you? 
It's  so  very  unlike  anything  she's  ever  done  before. 
Some  one  has  been  influencing  her — some  one  we 
have  never  heard  of.  She's  done  this  on  purpose 
to  put  a  barrier  between  herself  and  Paul  in  such 
a  way  that  people  can't  blame  her." 

"Still,  you  should  have  been  more  careful  what 
you  said  to  Paul  about  her.  You  know  what  his 
temper  is.  I'm  dreadfully  sorry  there  should  have 
been  this  unpleasantness  so  soon  after  his  return. 
He  will  begin  to  regret  that  he  came  home  at  all." 

"You  had  better  blame  Gillian  then,  not  me," 
said  Joan  sharply,  "it  is  her  doing.  Why  on  earth 
couldn't  she  write  and  tell  him  instead  of  letting 
him  come  back  so  full  of  hope?  She  is  a  very  de- 
signing, artful,  intriguing  woman." 

It  was  not  sufficient  for  Joan  to  have  discovered 
the  clay  feet  of  her  idol;  the  whole  world  must  share 
in  the  discovery. 

"Alastair  always  disliked  her,"  she  added,  as  if 
this  put  the  final  seal  upon  the  downfall  and  con- 
demnation of  Gillian  Driscoll. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

"D  EFORE  Ian  Frazer  left  for  France  he  paid  a  visit 
•**  to  an  old  and  dear  friend  of  his,  a  Mrs.  Car- 
rington,  who  lived  in  a  dark  brown  house  in  Curzon 
Street.  He  wished  to  enlist  her  sympathy  in  this 
new  convert,  and  he  was  by  no  means  deterred  by 
the  knowledge  that  Mrs.  Carrington  was  in  deep 
mourning  as  she  had  just  lost  her  only  son,  who 
was  also  her  only  child,  in  France.  He  had  fallen 
while  gallantly  leading  his  company.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Carrington  was  an  elderly  woman,  but  she 
was  still  extremely  beautiful  with  dark  iron-grey  hair 
that  grew  thickly  against  her  forehead  in  soft  waves, 
and  dark  eyes  that  were  neither  brown  nor  grey. 
She  was  in  her  way  quite  a  personality,  and  had  one 
of  those  houses  where  people  delight  to  go,  not  only 
certain  of  their  welcome  but  assured  too  that  they 
will  meet  there  other  charming  and  agreeable  per- 
sons, in  a  pleasant  and  sympathetic  atmosphere. 

Just  now  the  house  was  closed  against  all  but  her 
most  intimate  friends.  Mrs.  Carrington's  suffering 
had  been  very  intense,  for  as  far  as  a  very  devout 
woman  could  do  so,  she  had  idolised  her  boy.  But 
Ian  was  among  her  most  intimate  friends.  She  had 
helped  him  in  all  kinds  of  ways  during  the  critical 
time  of  his  own  conversion,  and  the  bonds  thus 
forged  between  them  had  never  been  relaxed.  He 
was  about  the  same  age  as  her  own  son,  and  the  two 
men  had  also  been  friends. 

Judging  Gillian's  present  position  to  be  extremely 
desolate  and  surrounded  by  no  common  danger,  he 
had  resolved  to  beg  Mrs.  Carrington  to  come  to  the 
rescue  and  befriend  her. 

It  was  a  wet  windy  evening  in  November  when  he 
found  himself  ushered  into  the  large  rather  old- 

348 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  349 

fashioned  drawing-room  which  ran  from  front  to 
back  of  the  house  in  the  usual  London  fashion.  Mrs. 
Carrington  was  sitting  wrapped  in  a  shawl  by  the 
fireplace.  She  looked  up  as  he  came  in. 

"How  nice  you  look  in  khaki,  Ian,"  she  said,  hold- 
ing out  her  hand  to  him  without  rising. 

"I  don't  feel  like  myself  in  it,"  said  Ian  smiling. 
"I  got  very  slack  about  dress  at  Assisi." 

He  sat  down  and  looked  at  her  with  his  bright 
steel-like  eyes. 

"I've  got  a  good  work  for  you  to  do,  my  dear 
Madrina,"  he  said.  She  was  not  really  his  god- 
mother, but  she  had  helped  him  so  much  when  he 
had  been  received  that  he  had  bestowed  this  name 
upon  her  out  of  gratitude  and  affection. 

"I  cannot  undertake  any  good  works  just  now," 
said  Mrs.  Carrington,  "it's  really  quite  impossible. 
I'm  going  over  to  Les  Sables  on  Wednesday  week 
to  start  my  hospital." 

"So  you  have  just  ten  days  by  your  own  showing 
in  which  to  do  what  I  want,"  replied  Ian  calmly. 

"My  time  between  this  and  then  is  fully  occupied. 
It's  no  small  matter  starting  even  a  little  hospital 
in  France." 

"I  only  want  you  to  come  with  me  one  day  and 
see  a  friend  of  mine,  Mrs.  Driscoll.  She  is  a  very 
recent  convert — in  fact,  she  was  only  received  last 
week." 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Driscoll?  I  never  heard  you  speak 
of  her." 

"I  first  met  her  in  Assisi  last  summer.  She  is 
quite  young  and  very  pretty " 

"And  living  apart  from  her  husband  of  course," 
she  observed  sapiently. 

"How  cynical  you  are,"  said  Ian,  "but  it  is  even 
worse  than  that.  She  has  divorced  him,  and  was 
about  to  make  a  second  marriage  when,"  he  paused, 


350  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"when — it  just  happened.  She  struggled  for  a  while, 
of  course,  and  very  nearly  gave  in.  But  thanks  be 
to  God "  He  bowed  his  head  reverently. 

Mrs.  Carrington  was  interested  in  spite  of  her- 
self. 

"Did  anybody  use  their  influence  with  her?"  she 
asked. 

"At  the  time  of  her  decision  she  was  quite  alone. 
I  had  a  shot  at  it  last  summer  when  she  told  me 
something  of  her  history.  And  some  woman  in 
Rome  had  told  her  what  the  Catholic  Church  teaches 
about  the  re-marriage  of  divorced  persons." 

"And  this  man  she  thought  of  marrying?" 

"He's  at  the  front  now,"  said  Ian.  "He  seems  to 
have  taken  it  most  awfully  well.  He  has  been  de- 
voted to  her  for  years,  and  is  very  unselfish  about 
her.  But  she's  awfully  alone,  Madrina  mia.  She 
doesn't  know  any  Catholics  at  all  except  a  priest 
and  a  few  nuns  and  myself.  Do  come  and  see  her 
with  me." 

"I  don't  see  what  good  I  can  do.  And  I'm 
much  too  busy  to  attend  to  my  old  work  of  looking 
after  converts." 

"But — just  this  one,"  he  pleaded.  "She  is  really 
very  charming.  I'm  sure  you'll  like  her." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  very  deeply  inter- 
ested in  this  woman,  Ian,"  said  Mrs.  Carrington  in 
a  tone  that  was  almost  severe. 

"Oh,  but  I  am,"  said  Ian  frankly,  and  meeting 
her  look  without  the  slightest  embarrassment.  "I 
don't  know  when  I've  been  so  interested  in  any  one. 
It's  been  such  a  wonderful  thing,  you  see,  to  watch 
a  soul — a  little  weak,  helpless,  insignificant  soul — 
being  pursued  and  hunted  and  captured.  Even  the 
best  of  us  seem  such  worthless  quarry,"  he  added. 
"I  want  you  to  be  kind  to  her  because  she  has  been 
through  a  good  deal.  By  the  way,  she  is  quite  well 
off — she  might  help  you  with  your  hospital." 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  351 

"I  don't  want  pecuniary  help,"  said  Mrs.  Carring- 
ton,  "and  I  am  not  going  to  have  any  untrained 
women  working  there.  The  wounded  have  quite 
enough  to  endure  without  that." 

"Well,  do  just  come  and  see  her.  I'm  sure  you'll 
take  an  immense  fancy  to  her,"  said  Ian  confidently. 

Mrs.  Carrington  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded, 
principally  because  she  seldom  refused  Ian  Frazer 
anything,  and  secondly  because  the  little  account  he 
had  given  her  of  Mrs.  Driscoll  had  aroused  her  sym- 
pathetic interest.  On  the  following  afternoon  she 
drove  to  Chelsea  with  him.  Gillian  had  already  been 
informed  of  their  intended  visit  and  she  felt  a  little 
curious  to  see  this  woman  of  whom  Ian  thought  so 
much. 

He  was  nervously  anxious  about  the  success  of  his 
little  plan ;  for  while  he  felt  quite  certain  that  Mrs. 
Carrington  would  like  Gillian  he  felt  much  less  cer- 
tain about  Gillian  herself. 

But  Gillian  received  them  both  in  such  a  simple 
and  friendly  fashion  that  after  a  very  short  time 
Ian  was  able  to  go  away  and  leave  them  together, 
feeling  thoroughly  assured  of  the  success  of  the  ex- 
periment. 

Mrs.  Carrington,  already  disposed  to  like  Gillian, 
took  an  immense  fancy  to  the  pretty,  delicate-looking 
woman  who  had  been  through  such  strange  and 
stormy  experiences.  Her  heart  went  out  to  her. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  very  kindly,  after  Ian  Frazer 
had  departed,  "Ian  has  told  me  so  much  about  you 
that  I  feel  as  if  we  were  quite  old  friends.  It  is 
quite  lately,  he  tells  me,  that  your  miracle  took 
place." 

Miracle?     Gillian  both  looked  and  felt  puzzled. 

"To  me  every  conversion  is  such  a  wonderful 
miracle,"  said  Mrs.  Carrington. 

"My  conversion  was  forced  upon  me,"  said  Gil- 


352  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

lian.  "Nothing  was  further  from  my  mind  when  I 
went  abroad  last  spring  than  the  thought  of  relig- 
ion. It  was  forced  upon  me,"  she  repeated. 

Encouraged  by  the  kindly  interest  Mrs.  Carring- 
ton  was  displaying  she  related  some  of  her  experi- 
ences, as  far  as  she  was  able  to  express  these  in 
words,  especially  those  that  had  come  to  her  in  the 
Church  of  San  Francesco  at  Assisi,  and  afterwards 
in  the  little  church  at  Chelsea.  Mrs.  Carrington 
listened  with  deep  attention.  Nothing  perhaps  inter- 
ested her  so  profoundly  as  the  history  of  a  conver- 
sion. For  no  two  are  alike;  to  every  soul  there  is 
something  exceptional  and  individual  in  the  path  that 
leads  to  the  goal.  The  sum  of  sacrifice  demanded 
differs  in  every  case.  Sometimes  it  is  so  little ;  some- 
times the  hard  commandment  of  "Sell  whatsoever 
thou  hast  and  come,  follow  Me,"  is  given, — a  sacri- 
fice that  is  almost  too  great  to  be  made.  Gillian  had 
paid  the  full  price,  conscious  that  it  was  inevitable. 

It  was  very  pleasant  to  her  to  find  herself  in  an 
atmosphere  of  sympathy  and  approval.  Lately  she 
had  had  much  to  bear  of  condemnation,  disdain,  and 
disapproval  from  her  friends  and  acquaintances. 
Only  Paul,  who  had  suffered  most,  had  never  re- 
proached her.  It  was  the  power  of  understanding 
her  that  he  had  evinced  which  had  been  of  such  im- 
mense consolation  to  her. 

"I  do  not  know  if  Mr.  Frazer  has  told  you  that 
I  am  just  starting  a  little  hospital  at  Les  Sables," 
said  Mrs.  Carrington  presently;  "I  am  going  there 
next  week  with  four  trained  nurses.  But  if  you  liked 
to  come  with  me  I  am  sure  that  you  would  find  plenty 
to  do.  You  could  help  me  with  the  housekeeping 
and  in  looking  after  the  linen — things  that  most 
women  who  have  had  a  house  of  their  own  under- 
stand. I  wanted  some  one,  but  I  didn't  want  to  take 
a  girl.  I  think  you  would  be  the  very  person " 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  353 

"Oh,  I  should  like  it  so  much,"  said  Gillian  quite 
eagerly.  "I  have  been  very  idle  all  this  time  and 
have  done  nothing  to  help." 

"My  dear,  you  have  been  busy  about  other 
things,"  said  Mrs.  Carrington  gently;  "sometimes 
God  requires  all  our  time  for  Himself.  Do  you 
think  you  can  be  ready  as  soon  as  next  week?" 

"I  feel  as  if  I  could  be  ready  now,"  said  Gillian. 

"I  hope  to  start  on  Wednesday  week  and  get 
things  in  thorough  order  by  the  end  of  the  month. 
We  might  travel  together.  But  I  shall  see  you  again 
before  then.  I  am  not  receiving  at  all  just  now,  but 
I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would  come  and  have 
luncheon  with  me  on  Sunday." 

She  rose  to  take  her  departure,  and  moved  by 
a  sudden  impulse  she  kissed  Gillian  on  both  cheeks. 
"Good-bye,  my  dear.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  happy 
it  has  made  me  to  make  your  acquaintance.  I  shall 
not  let  you  overwork  yourself  at  Les  Sables.  You 
don't  look  at  all  strong." 

As  she  went  away  she  thought  to  herself: 

"What  a  child  she  looks  to  have  gone  through  so 
much !  And  such  a  fragile  child  too.  I  must  write 
and  tell  Ian  what  we  have  arranged." 

The  letter  was  written  that  same  evening.  "I've 
quite  fallen  in  love  with  your  little  friend.  She  is 
coming  to  Les  Sables  with  me.  Of  course  I  know 
this  is  what  you  always  intended,  you  intriguing  per- 
son." 

Ian  Frazer  chuckled  over  the  letter.  This  project 
had  certainly  been  in  his  mind  from  the  very  be- 
ginning, but  he  had  not  imagined  that  it  would  mate- 
rialise so  rapidly.  Now  he  felt  that  he  could  go  away 
knowing  that  Gillian  was  in  safe  hands. 

Amaryllis  was  dreadfully  aggrieved  at  the  pros- 
pect of  Gillian's  departure.  She  was  not  at  all  well ; 


354  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

the  weather  was  bad,  and  she  could  not  even  go  for 
drives;  she  depended  very  greatly  upon  Mrs.  Dris- 
coll's  daily  visits. 

She  had  recovered  almost  immediately  from  her 
momentary  anger  at  hearing  Gillian  had  become  a 
Catholic;  had  even  written  a  humble  little  note  of 
apology,  full  of  promise  of  amendment,  the  same 
evening.  "We  mustn't  quarrel,  Jill  dear,"  she  wrote, 
"and  of  course  I  know  you  think  you  are  doing  your 
duty.  I  simply  can't  do  without  you  now." 

But  when  Gillian  came  and  disclosed  her  new 
plan  of  going  to  Les  Sables  poor  Amaryllis  was  so 
aghast  at  the  thought  of  losing  her  that  she  began 
to  cry  weakly. 

"Oh,  Jill,  how  unkind  of  you!  I  do  want  you 
so  much.  Mother  fusses  so — and  I  simply  hate 
other  people  about.  You've  been  with  me  all  the 
time,  you  see." 

Gillian  tried  to  comfort  her.  "But  I've  been  hor- 
ribly idle,  and  now  this  work's  been  offered  to  me 
I  don't  like  to  refuse,  Ammy.  And  Mrs.  Carring- 
ton " 

At  the  sound  of  this  unknown  name  Amaryllis 
lifted  her  head  and  regarded  Gillian  resentfully. 

"Who  in  the  world  is  Mrs.  Carrington?  I  never 
heard  you  speak  of  her  before." 

"She  is  a  friend  of  Ian  Frazer's.  He  introduced 
us  to  each  other  because  he  thought  I  ought  to  have 
a  Catholic  friend." 

"Very  kind  and  thoughtful  of  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Sprot  in  a  tone  of  disdain.  "Jill,  why  do  you  let 
people  interfere  with  you  so?  You  let  yourself  be 
chivied  about  from  pillar  to  post,"  she  added  with 
what  was  to  Gillian  a  welcome  touch  of  her  old  argot. 
"Why  should  you  allow  this  woman  to  drag  you  off 
abroad  just  because  she's  a  Holy  Roman?" 

"Oh,  she's  not  dragging  me.    I  was  quite  delighted 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  355 

at  the  prospect  of  going  to  Les  Sables.  And  she  has 
lost  her  only  son  in  Flanders — she  looks  very  sad," 
said  Gillian  gently. 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  desert  me  now,  Jill,  for  any 
new  friend.  I  thought  I  could  count  upon  you," 
said  Amaryllis.  "It  will  be  hateful  when  you  have 
gone." 

"Dear  Ammy,  I  do  want  to  help.  And  perhaps 
I  shan't  be  gone  many  weeks."  She  bent  down  and 
kissed  her  friend.  "I  hope  you  won't  miss  me  so 
much,  Ammy,  directly  you  are  feeling  a  little  better 
and  can  go  out  for  drives  again." 

Even  Mrs.  Sprot  could  not  keep  her  in  London. 
She  was  eagerly  looking  forward  to  the  day  when 
she  should  start  for  France  with  Mrs.  Carrington. 
She  felt  almost  excited  at  the  prospect.  Only  the 
thought  of  Amaryllis  made  her  feel  a  little  guilty 
as  if  she  were  acting  selfishly.  Was  Ammy  right 
in  saying  she  allowed  herself  to  be  too  readily  in- 
fluenced by  other  people?  Perhaps  that  always  hap- 
pened to  a  woman  alone,  without  ties,  without  any 
one  to  restrict  her.  Ever  since  her  divorce  she  had 
been  inundated  from  all  quarters  with  advice  good 
and  bad.  It  was  difficult  to  know  what  to  do  for  the 
best,  but  she  had  consulted  her  confessor  and  he  had 
approved  of  the  plan  of  her  accompanying  Mrs.  Car- 
rington abroad. 

She  wished  Amaryllis  had  not  needed  her  so  much. 
And  one  evening  she  encountered  Mrs.  Porter  just 
as  she  was  leaving,  and  took  fresh  alarm  at  the  sight 
of  that  lady's  anxious  and  worried  face. 

"I  am  so  very  sorry  you  are  going  abroad,  Gil- 
lian. Poor  Ammy's  dreadfully  upset  about  it." 

She  spoke  so  reproachfully  that  Gillian  flushed. 
"I  am  very  sorry  to  leave  Ammy,  too,  Mrs.  Porter. 
I  had  no  idea  when  I  promised  to  go  that  she  needed 
me  so  much." 


356  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

"I  am  anxious,"  said  Mrs.  Porter  in  a  sepulchral 
voice,  "about  Ammy." 

"Anxious?"  echoed  Gillian. 

Considering  the  painful  circumstances  she  had  not 
thought  there  was  anything  abnormal  about  Mrs. 
Sprot's  state  of  health. 

"You  must  see  for  yourself  how  terribly  changed 
she  is,"  continued  Mrs.  Porter.  "Oh,  I  know  she 
has  been  very  brave  and  all  that,  but  I  sometimes 
think  she  was  too  self-controlled,  too  determined 
not  to  give  way  at  the  beginning.  She's  a  mere  skel- 
eton, and  I  know  she's  just  fretting  to  death." 

Gillian  wondered  why  these  facts  had  impressed 
her  so  little.  Perhaps  it  was  because  she  had  seen 
Ammy  every  day  that  she  had  been  so  slow  to  note 
the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  her.  She  was 
painfully  thin,  and  her  face  had  an  odd,  wasted, 
drawn  look.  She  had  always  been  gay  and  cheerful 
by  temperament,  and  now  one  was  apt  to  take  it  for 
granted  and  not  realise  what  a  strain  that  very  gaiety 
and  cheerfulness  must  be  to  her  now. 

"I  wish  you  weren't  going,"  continued  Mrs. 
Porter,  "she  depends  on  you,  you  cheer  her.  I'm  too 
anxious  and  I  only  worry  her.  But  then  she's  my 
only  child  and  she's  all  I've  got  in  the  world."  The 
tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

Gillian  could  only  say  as  she  had  done  to  Ama- 
ryllis: "Perhaps  I  shall  not  stay  away  many  weeks. 
And  if  you  really  think  she  wants  me  to  come  back 
you  must  send  for  me." 

"I  wish  you  were  not  going,"  repeated  Mrs.  Porter 
in  a  melancholy  tone,  "Ammy  clings  to  you  somehow. 
When  I  think  how  splendidly  strong  she's  always 
been  it  breaks  my  heart  to  see  her  now !" 

Gillian  drove  round  to  Belgrave  Square  that  same 
evening  for  the  purpose  of  taking  leave  of  the  Pal- 
lants.  Although  neither  Lady  Pallant  nor  Joan  had 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  357 

taken  any  notice  of  her  since  the  rupture  of  her  en- 
gagement to  Paul,  nevertheless  Gillian  thought  it 
would  be  more  polite  to  go  and  see  them  and  inform 
them  of  her  impending  departure.  In  the  drawing- 
room  she  found  Joan  sitting  with  her  mother.  Both 
were  knitting  vigorously. 

"I've  come  to  say  good-bye,"  said  Gillian.  "I'm 
going  to  France  on  Wednesday  to  help  Mrs.  Car- 
rington  with  her  little  hospital."  She  felt  nervous 
as  she  made  this  speech  in  a  hurried  almost  inaudible 
voice. 

Lady  Pallant  said,  just  as  Amaryllis  had  done : 

"Who  in  the  world  is  Mrs.  Carrington?" 

"She — she  was  introduced  to  me  by  a  friend," 
said  Gillian,  flushing  a  little.  "She  is  a  Catholic, 
and  as  she  was  just  starting  this  hospital  she  asked 
me  to  go  and  help  her." 

"Well,  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  going  to 
do  something  useful  at  last,  Jill,"  said  Mrs.  Grant 
in  a  firm  tone  of  voice,  exactly  as  if  she  were  speak- 
ing to  a  child. 

But  Lady  Pallant  was  occupied  with  quite  another 
issue. 

"One  hears  that  always  about  Roman  Catholics," 
she  said,  "that  they  cling  together.  Where  does 
she  live?" 

"In  Curzon  Street,"  said  Gillian. 

"Oh,  I  think  I've  heard  of  her,"  said  Lady  Pal- 
lant, "quite  a  fanatic,  I  believe,  in  her  own  line.  It 
was  she  who  persuaded  Lady  Ida  Middleford's  girl 
to  become  a  Catholic.  It  caused  quite  a  family  feud 
and  no  end  of  trouble  and  worry,  but  then  they  never 
seem  to  take  people's  feelings  into  account." 

"Jill  is  very  lucky  to  be  taken  up  by  such  a  rich, 
powerful  woman,"  pronounced  Joan  with  a  touch  of 
malicious  asperity  in  her  voice;  "of  course  if  you  get 
into  the  exclusive  Catholic  set  through  her  you  will 


358  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

do  very  well.  You  will  find  it  a  great  improvement 
upon  the  Upper  Bohemia  you  used  to  have  at  your 
house  when  you  were  first  married.  You  must  try 
and  manage  it  somehow." 

"I  don't  think  we  shall  see  much  society  of  any 
kind  at  Les  Sables,"  said  Gillian  dryly. 

"What  a  pity  you  haven't  been  through  any 
course,"  continued  Joan;  "now  if  you  had  only  fol- 
lowed my  advice  and  example  and  got  your  Red 
Cross  certificates,  you  would  have  been  of  far  more 
use  in  a  hospital." 

"I  am  not  going  to  nurse — Mrs.  Carrington  is 
only  employing  trained  women.  I'm  to  help  her  with 
the  housekeeping  and  the  linen,"  said  Gillian. 

Even  she  was  a  little  astonished  at  the  definite 
hostility  of  Joan's  manner.  But  it  gave  her  a  pre- 
text for  shortening  her  visit. 

"I  shall  be  so  glad  to  feel  I'm  doing  something," 
she  said  brightly  as  she  got  up  to  go.  "I  have  been 
a  drone  so  long." 

Paul's  name  was  not  mentioned.  She  longed  to 
ask  if  they  had  had  news  of  him,  for  since  he  went 
away  he  had  not  once  written  to  her.  Perhaps  it  was 
better  so,  but  she  had  somehow  hoped  they  would 
speak  of  him. 

When  she  had  gone  Joan  said  to  her  mother: 

"What  an  extraordinarily  lucky  woman  Jill  is. 
She  always  falls  on  her  feet.  People — really  nice 
people  too — take  such  fancies  to  her.  I  can't  under- 
stand it." 

Lady  Pallant  at  any  other  time  would  have  smiled 
acidly  at  the  shortness  of  her  daughter's  memory. 

"This  Mrs.  Carrington  will  soon  find  out  how 
utterly  incompetent  she  is,"  continued  Joan  disdain- 
fully. Then,  after  a  pause  during  which  Lady  Pal- 
lant continued  to  knit  vigorously,  she  inquired: 
"Shall  you  tell  Paul  that  she's  going  to  Les  Sables?" 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  359 

"I  haven't  made  up  my  mind,"  said  Lady  Pallant. 
"But  I  should  think  she  would  tell  him  herself." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  they  still  write  to  each  other?" 
said  Joan. 

Lady  Pallant  shook  her  head. 

"One  can  never  tell  with  Paul,"  she  said,  "he's 
devoted  to  her,  and  nothing  she  can  ever  do  or  say 
will  change  him.  I  dare  say  he  goes  on  hoping  against 
hope." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

p  HE  winter — the  first  terrible  winter  of  the  Great 
•*•  War — dragged  on  with  seemingly  interminable 
length.  Gillian  spent  it  at  Les  Sables,  a  place  which 
she  had  visited  long  ago  with  Aylmer  when  they  had 
spent  a  few  weeks  there  for  sea-bathing  and  golf, 
and  which  was  now  transformed  out  of  all  recog- 
nition. All  the  huge  hotels  as  well  as  the  little  villas 
and  painted  chalets  were  turned  into  ambulances. 
No  longer  a  place  of  pleasure,  it  could  have  rivalled 
one  of  Dante's  grim  circles  of  Hell  as  an  abode  of 
pain.  The  hordes  of  rich  people  who  had  been  ac- 
customed to  invade  it  during  the  summer  months 
were  elsewhere  employed;  the  surviving  men  fighting 
gallantly  in  the  trenches,  the  women  tending  the 
wounded,  the  sick,  and  the  children. 

Sea  and  sands,  pine-woods  and  pale  blanched  lines 
of  sand-dunes  where  the  dark  coarse  grass  waved 
like  long  hair  combed  back  by  the  wind,  made  up  the 
desolate  winter  landscape.  Often  the  grey  sea  was 
veiled  and  shrouded  with  mist;  often  it  was  stirred 
to  violent  fury  by  the  storms  that  beat  upon  the  coast. 
At  night  the  wind  sobbed  at  the  windows  of  the  little 
chalet-hospital,  like  a  desolate  and  stricken  soul 
pleading  for  admission. 

Looking  back  upon  that  long  winter  those  who 
suffered  from  anxiety  and  bereavement — and  there 
were  many  who  bore  uncomplainingly  the  double 
cross — might  well  wonder  how  they  could  have  lived 
through  a  time  of  such  profound  and  poignant 
anguish.  The  very  flower  of  England  fought  and 
fell  upon  the  fields  of  Flanders  and  France.  .  .  . 

Gillian  became  more  and  more  busy  as  the  days 
went  on.  Mrs.  Carrington  was  ill  for  some  weeks 
during  the  month  of  January,  and  she  left  things 

360 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  361 

almost  entirely  in  Gillian's  hands.  She  had  acquired, 
too,  sufficient  knowledge  and  experience  to  give  a 
good  deal  of  assistance  in  the  wards.  She  seemed 
to  herself  in  those  days  to  have  become  completely 
detached  from  her  old  life  and  to  have  made  a  fresh 
start.  She  received  very  few  letters  from  England, 
for  Lady  Pallant  never  wrote,  and  Miss  Letty,  who 
knew  without  doubt  what  her  sister  would  have  said 
had  she  lived  to  see  their  niece  become  a  Catholic, 
only  occasionally  sent  her  a  formal  and  stiff  little 
note  to  show  her  that  she  was  not  forgotten  although 
she  was  still  in  disgrace. 

It  was  not  till  May  that  she  returned  to  London, 
summoned  thither  by  Mrs.  Porter.  Ammy's  son 
had  made  his  appearance,  and  the  accounts  of  Mrs. 
Sprot  were  unsatisfactory.  She  had  begged  that  Gil- 
lian might  be  sent  for. 

"Do  go  for  a  few  days,"  Mrs.  Carrington  had 
said.  "I  can  look  after  things  perfectly  for  a  week 
or  so,  and  you  really  need  a  holiday." 

As  soon  as  possible  after  her  arrival  Gillian  went 
round  to  the  flat  in  Knightsbridge  which  Mrs.  Porter 
had  inhabited  ever  since  January  with  her  daughter. 
The  back  windows  had  a  pleasant  view  over  the 
Park  and  it  was  in  one  of  these  rooms  that  Gillian 
found  Mrs.  Porter  sitting  alone.  She  looked  tired 
out,  and  as  if  she  had  had  no  sleep  for  weeks. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Jill!"  said  Mrs.  Porter,  and  burst 
into  tears.  She  sobbed  unrestrainedly  for  some  min- 
utes. At  last  she  looked  up  and  her  face  was  dis- 
figured with  the  sudden  weeping. 

"You  shall  see  her  presently,"  said  Mrs.  Porter, 
choking  back  her  sobs  with  a  great  effort,  "she's 
frightfully  weak,  but  the  doctor  hasn't  given  up 
hope.  .  .  ."  She  looked  at  Gillian  piteously. 

Before  Mrs.  Driscoll  could  answer  the  door 
opened  and  the  nurse  came  into  the  room  carrying 


362  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

a  white  bundle  in  her  arms.  Gillian  uncovered  the 
tiny  crumpled  face.  The  baby  was  asleep.  There 
was  a  curiously  marked  resemblance  to  his  father, 
as  is  so  often  the  case  with  a  posthumous  child. 

She  took  him  in  her  arms  and  kissed  him  so 
lightly  on  the  forehead  that  he  never  stirred  in  his 
sleep.  ...  A  whole  flood  of  reminiscences  surged 
back  to  her  heart.  She  envied  Ammy.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Porter  went  quickly  out  of  the  room  with  a 
pale  and  now  controlled  face.  Gillian  guessed  that 
she  had  gone  back  to  her  daughter.  She  turned  to 
the  nurse. 

"I'm  very  sorry  to  hear  such  a  bad  account  of 
Mrs.  Sprot.  Shall  I  be  allowed  to  see  her  to-day?" 

"She  is  very  weak  indeed,  Mrs.  Driscoll,"  said 
the  nurse,  "but  you  are  to  see  her  if  she  asks  for 
you,  and  I  don't  think  it  can  do  her  any  harm. 
You  know  how  brave  she's  been  all  along.  It  was 
only  after  the  baby  was  born  that  her  courage  seemed 
suddenly  to  leave  her.  I  know  she  had  tried  to  keep 
up  for  the  child's  sake  and  it  was  perhaps  too  great 
a  strain.  She  bore  up  splendidly  all  the  time.  But 
now " 

She  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  convey  to  Gillian  that 
Mrs.  Sprot's  wonderful  vitality  had  vanished.  "I've 
told  her  that  the  baby  needs  her  now  more  than  ever. 
I've  told  her  she  ought  to  try  and  get  better  because 
of  him.  But  it's  always  the  same  answer :  T'm  too 
tired.'  " 

Mrs.  Porter  came  back  and  standing  on  the 
threshold  beckoned  to  Gillian. 

"She  is  asking  for  you — she  wanted  to  know  if 
you  had  come." 

The  nurse  said:  "Try  and  say  something  to  cheer 
her.  She's  awfully  changed  of  course.  ..." 

Gillian  followed  Mrs.  Porter  down  the  passage 
and  into  a  room  at  the  end.  It  was  partially  dark- 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  363 

ened,  but  the  sharp  May  sunshine  stole  through  a 
chink  of  the  shutters  and  made  a  long  slanting  line 
of  gold  across  the  pink  carpet.  Gillian  went  softly 
towards  the  bed.  She  had  worked  so  hard  in  the 
wards  in  France  that  she  felt  almost  like  a  profes- 
sional nurse.  As  her  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the 
dim  light  she  was  able  to  distinguish  the  details  of 
Ammy's  forlorn  appearance. 

She  thought  she  had  never  seen  any  one  so  piti- 
ably changed.  Ammy's  round,  sunburnt,  boyish  little 
face  had  become  drawn  and  thin,  and  in  color  it  was 
of  a  curious  transparent  waxen  hue,  neither  yellow 
nor  white.  Her  eyes  were  sunken  and  were  sur- 
rounded by  heavy  dark  circles.  She  looked  like  a 
dying  woman. 

There  are  killed  and  wounded  by  war  of  whom  no 
returns  reach  Downing  Street. 

The  words  rushed  back  irresistibly  to  Gillian's 
mind ;  she  knew  that  Arnmy  was  dying  of  her  wounds 
just  as  surely  as  those  mutilated  soldiers  she  had 
tended  in  the  hospital  at  Les  Sables.  .  .  . 

She  bent  over  her. 

"Ammy  dear,"  she  said  gently 

But  Ammy  did  not  seem  to  hear. 

"Dear    Ammy — it's    Jill.     I've    come    to    see 
you.  ..." 

Amaryllis  turned  restless  and  sunken  eyes  to- 
wards her. 

"I  ...  wanted  you "  she  said. 

But  her  face  wore  a  puzzled  expression  as  if  she 
knew  that  she  had  wanted  Gillian  but  could  not  re- 
member why. 

Gillian  sat  down  by  the  bedside  and  stroked  the 
thin  and  wasted  hand  that  lay  so  still  upon  the  coun- 
terpane. The  little  caress  seemed  to  soothe  Ama- 
ryllis; her  face  became  more  calm,  less  puzzled  and 
anxious-looking. 


364  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

Presently  Gillian  said  : 

"I've  seen  the  baby,  Ammy.  What  a  beautiful 
little  boy  he  is  1  You  must  feel  very  proud  of  your 
son." 

Ammy  opened  her  eyes  again  and  fixed  them 
steadily  but  languidly  upon  Mrs.  Driscoll. 

"Not  now  ..."  she  said  almost  as  if  she  were 
talking  to  herself,  "not  now.  ..."  She  smiled — 
the  queer  remote  smile  of  dying  people  who  are  in- 
stinctively aware  that  they  are  passing  away  from 
the  fret  of  temporal  things,  the  joys,  the  sorrows,  the 
hopes  and  the  dreadful  fears.  "Too  tired,"  she 
added  below  her  breath.  She  spoke  the  last  two 
words  so  low  that  Gillian  only  caught  them  with 
difficulty. 

"Yes,  you  are  tired  now  and  no  wonder,  Ammy. 
But  in  a  few  days,  dear,  when  you  begin  to  get  bet- 
ter  "  Gillian's  heart  sank  even  as  she  uttered 

the  brave,  hopeful,  commonplace  words. 

A  curious  look  of  effort  came  over  Ammy's  wasted 
face.  Her  lips  opened.  She  was  trying  to  speak,  to 
collect  her  thoughts.  Gillian  waited  in  silence. 

"You — tell — him — about  Hengist "  Amaryl- 
lis said  at  last.  "Don't  let — him — forget.  ...  I 
want  him  to  know — when  he  is  old  enough — how  his 
father  died — why  he  died.  ...  I  kept  all  the 
letters.  Don't  let  him  forget." 

She  spoke  the  sentences  in  an  abrupt  jerky  manner 
as  if  she  had  scarcely  strength  to  utter  the  words. 

"He's  been  christened — Hengist "  she  added 

after  a  little  pause.  Her  sunken  blue  eyes,  which  had 
been  fastened  upon  Gillian's  face,  now  closed  drow- 
sily. 

The  nurse  came  back  into  the  room.  After  one 
glance  at  her  patient  she  laid  the  infant  in  his  cradle 
and  went  away.  Ammy,  disturbed  by  the  little  inter- 
ruption, turned  her  head  restlessly;  she  seemed  to  be 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  365 

looking  for  something.  Gillian  fetched  the  baby  and 
laid  him  very  gently  by  his  mother's  side.  She 
guessed  the  working  of  that  wandering  mother-mind. 
The  baby  slept  on,  making  little  grunts  in  his  sleep, 
beautifully  unconscious  of  the  tragedy  that  was  being 
enacted.  Ammy  opened  her  eyes  again. 

"When — he  gets — old — enough — tell  him." 

The  nurse  returned  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Porter 
and  the  doctor.  Gillian  crept  away  to  make  place  for 
them.  The  doctor  laid  his  finger  on  Ammy's  pulse 
but  made  no  comment.  He  took  a  case  from  his 
pocket  and  thrust  something  into  her  arm.  Even 
the  sharp  prick  failed  now  to  arouse  her.  Her 
eyes  were  closed;  the  waxen  yellow-whiteness  of  her 
face  had  become  a  little  grey.  She  looked  like  an 
elderly  faded  woman. 

Gillian  again  joined  the  little  group  by  the  bedside. 
The  doctor  looked  very  grave.  Mrs.  Porter,  who 
seemed  to  have  guessed  the  truth,  was  stifling  her 
sobs.  The  baby  still  lay  sleeping  on  his  mother's 
arm.  When  Ammy  opened  her  eyes  again  she  fixed 
them  almost  fiercely  upon  Gillian. 

"Don't   forget — to — tell — him "      Her  lips 

framed  rather  than  uttered  the  words.     Her  face 
was  quite  grey  with  a  kind  of  livid  unnatural  pallor. 

She  never  spoke  again.  Her  head  fell  back  on 
the  pillow.  The  baby  awoke  and  began  to  cry ;  the 
nurse  took  him  in  her  arms  and  rocked  him  softly. 
Mrs.  Porter's  sobs  burst  forth  unrestrained.  She 
cried  out :  "Ammy — my  darling — my  darling  child  1" 

Gillian  turned  away,  the  tears  smarting  in  her  eyes. 
She  remembered  Amaryllis's  words  spoken  soon  af- 
ter the  news  of  Hengist's  death  had  reached  her: 
"I  shall  teach  him  that  his  father's  blood  helped  to 
pay  for  that  freedom — that  unsullied  honour.  ..." 
And  his  mother?  Had  she  not  paid  too?  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

GILLIAN  remained  with  Mrs.  Porter  for  more 
than  a  week,  for  she  had  entreated  her  not  to 
desert  her  until  after  the  funeral,  when  she  herself 
intended  to  leave  London  for  the  summer,  taking 
the  baby  with  her.  Gillian  was  very  tired  after  being 
for  so  many  months  on  uninterrupted  duty,  and  the 
rest  was  welcome  to  her. 

She  had  gone  out  one  evening  to  take  a  little  walk 
in  the  Park  and  was  going  towards  Kensington,  when 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  she  saw  a  little 
group  of  three  people  advancing.  As  they  drew 
nearer  Gillian  recognized  them — they  were  indeed 
Joan  and  Paul  and  the  pretty  fair-haired  Lady 
Blanche  Ethan  whom  Lady  Pallant  had  once  wished 
that  her  son  might  marry.  They  did  not  see  her, 
and  Gillian  hurried  on,  thankful  to  have  passed  un« 
observed.  She  had  hardly  dared  to  look  at  Paul, 
fearing  that  he  would  see  her.  She  had  not  told  the 
Pallants  of  her  return,  and  now  she  felt  thankful  that 
she  had  not  ventured  to  visit  them. 

But  why  was  Paul  back  again  at  home?  Had  he 
been  wounded?  She  had  never  seen  his  name  in 
those  terrible  lists  which  every  day  seemed  to  become 
more  long  and  terrible,  bringing  desolation  to  so 
many  homes.  Perhaps  he  had  been  ill.  She  turned 
back  once  and  looked  after  them.  Lady  Blanche 
was  walking  between  Joan  and  Paul.  They  were 
going  rather  quickly,  and  from  this  fact  she  gathered 
that  Paul  was  not  an  invalid.  For  the  moment  her 
heart  had  beat  so  fast  she  could  scarcely  breathe. 
Now  she  felt  a  little  cold  and  faint.  It  was  the  sud- 
denness, the  unexpectedness  of  it,  that  had  been  al- 
most overwhelming.  Perhaps  her  nerves  had  suffered 
during  the  past  months  of  strenuous  work,  as  well 

366 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  367 

as  from  the  shock  of  poor  Ammy's  sudden  death. 
If  Paul  had  seen  her.  .  .  .  Her  thoughts  turned  to 
Lady  Blanche.  Was  he  going  to  marry  her?  Had 
he  recognised  that  barrier  Gillian  had  herself  raised 
between  them  was  an  insurmountable  one?  She 
turned  and  hurried  back  to  Mrs.  Porter's  abode  in 
a  disturbed  and  agitated  frame  of  mind. 

All  night  she  was  haunted  by  the  pale  stern  beauty 
of  his  face,  the  dark  melancholy,  reproachful  eyes, 
the  cold  pride  of  his  manner.  It  seemed  to  her  now 
as  if  a  whole  world  separated  them.  She  was  for- 
gotten by  Paul.  .  .  .  While  the  thought  of  his  un- 
failing love  and  tender  fidelity  had  helped  her 
through  the  worst  hours  of  their  enforced  separa- 
tion he  had  been  slowly  forgetting  her.  No  word 
had  broken  the  silence  that  was  now  more  than 
seven  months  old.  She  had  never  felt  so  completely 
separated  from  him  during  all  that  long  and  tragic 
winter  as  she  did  now  after  seeing  him  again  almost 
face  to  face.  Gillian  sobbed  herself  to  sleep  that 
night.  Her  only  consolation  lay  in  the  fact  that  she 
knew  Paul  to  be  safe  in  London. 

She  was  glad  when  the  day  came  for  her  to  return 
to  Les  Sables.  Although  Mrs.  Carrington  had  writ- 
ten to  beg  her  to  take  a  longer  holiday  she  insisted 
upon  going  back  on  the  day  she  had  originally  fixed. 
Her  eagerness  to  leave  London  was  intense.  She 
could  not  face  leisure  and  idleness  that  brought  to 
her  only  thoughts  of  Paul.  Her  salvation  lay  in  hard 
physical  work,  producing  such  bodily  fatigue  as  left 
her  with  little  choice  when  the  day  was  done  but  to 
fall  asleep,  and  sleep  heavily  till  morning  came.  She 
was  not  often  on  night  duty,  for  Mrs.  Carrington 
judged  her  to  be  too  delicate  for  the  more  arduous 
side  of  a  nurse's  career. 

If  she  had  ever  had  any  hope  that,  being  free, 
Paul  would  marry  her,  that  hope  had  suddenly  died. 


368  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

It  was  as  if  a  new  and  even  more  impregnable  bar- 
rier had  arisen  between  herself  and  Paul.  Once 
looking  idly  through  the  pages  of  a  book  she  had 
come 'upon  these  words:  "All  my  thoughts  run  to 
your  service,  they  seem  to  hear  you  call,  only  to  find 
locked  doors."  They  expressed  her  own  condition 
of  mind  with  a  detailed  and  poignant  exactitude  that 
was  almost  heart-breaking.  She  had  never  before 
felt  so  sensible  of  those  locked  doors — deliberately 
locked  against  her. 

She  came  to  lean  more  and  more  upon  the  support 
offered  her  by  her  religion.  Mrs.  Carrington  had  ar- 
ranged an  altar  in  the  largest  ward,  and  there  Mass 
was  said  daily.  Gillian  very  seldom  failed  to  be 
present.  And  she  was  never  so  tired  but  that  she 
contrived  to  say  her  rosary  for  Paul's  safety  before 
she  fell  asleep.  And  always  upon  first  awakening 
she  prayed  to  his  angel-guardian  to  "enlighten  and 
guide,  protect  and  direct  him,"  through  the  day  that 
was  just  born. 

Gillian  learned,  too,  something  of  the  inherent 
piety  of  the  French  soldier.  Scarcely  a  man  was 
brought  thither  who  did  not  display  suspended  round 
his  neck  the  badge  or  medal  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 
In  those  days  spent  in  the  hospital  the  realities  of 
her  faith  were  brought  home  to  her.  She  knew  what 
it  could  do  for  the  living,  the  dying,  and  the  dead. 
There  was  no  kind  of  anguish,  physical  or  mental, 
which  its  divine  consolations  could  not  assuage.  She 
felt  that  if  she  had  not  already  been  a  Catholic  her 
experiences  in  France  must  have  made  her  one.  She 
had  been  told  that  there  had  been  many  conversions 
among  the  English  troops,  both  officers  and  men, 
and  the  news  scarcely  surprised  her.  When  the  his- 
tory of  the  war  came  to  be  written  it  was  said  that 
the  French  soldier-priests  would  have  stories  to  tell 
that  were  at  once  beautiful  and  strange. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  369 

"Gillian,  you  are  working  much  too  hard.  And  I 
don't  think  you  take  enough  rest,"  Mrs.  Carrington 
said  to  her  one  day.  "I  wish  you  would  lie  down  this 
afternoon.  I  never  meant  you  to  do  the  work  of 
two  women  when  I  asked  you  to  come." 

"Nurse  Thomas  isn't  well,"  answered  Gillian  with 
an  attempted  briskness,  "her  hand's  bad.  I'm  afraid 
it's  poisoned  and  she's  got  a  temperature.  I'm  going 
to  do  duty  for  her,  and  help  with  changing  the  panse- 
ments." 

"Some  day  I  shall  insist  upon  your  going  for  a 
proper  holiday,"  said  Mrs.  Carrington,  "I  don't 
want  you  to  knock  yourself  up  and  lose  your  pretty 
looks,  Gillian." 

Gillian  smiled.  There  was  perfect  sympathy  be- 
tween the  two  women,  and  though  they  had  not 
known  each  other  long  they  had  been  thrown  to- 
gether in  an  intimacy  which  made  them  feel  as  if  they 
were  very  old  friends.  Indeed  their  relations  might 
almost  have  been  those  of  mother  and  daughter.  It 
was  strange  that  this  new  friend  should  have  so  fully 
and  beautifully  supplied  all  Gillian's  need  of  friend- 
ship and  sympathy,  giving  her  exactly  what  she  re- 
quired as  if  in  delicate  compensation  for  the  loss  of 
that  great  love  she  had  been  compelled  to  sacrifice. 

Mrs.  Carrington  had  noticed  the  change  that  had 
taken  place  in  her  during  the  short  time  of  her  stay 
in  England.  She  felt  that  something  had  happened, 
something  that  was  not  connected  with  the  very 
natural  grief  she  Had  felt  at  Mrs.  Sprot's  death.  All 
the  hope  seemed  to  have  died  out  of  her  face,  leaving 
it  almost  pathetically  sad.  Every  moment  of  her 
day  was  occupied.  She  worked  as  people  do  who 
refuse  to  allow  themselves  leisure  for  thought. 

Once  Ian  Frazer  paid  them  a  visit  on  his  way 
home.  He  had  been  given  a  commission  for  bravery 
in  the  field,  but  he  was  suffering  from  rheumatism, 


370  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

and  was  returning  home  for  a  few  weeks'  sick  leave. 
He  was,  however,  full  of  hope  at  the  prospect  of  an 
early  return  to  the  trenches. 

"I  don't  say  they're  nice  places,"  he  said  to  Gillian 
with  a  smile,  "but  I  do  say  that  no  man  ought  to 
feel  happy  or  satisfied  anywhere  else." 

He  was  shocked  at  the  news  of  Ammy's  death 
which  had  not  reached  him.  Gillian  told  him  about 
it.  Scarcely  a  year  had  passed  since  they  had  all 
been  together  at  Assisi,  and  humanly  speaking  it  had 
certainly  seemed  that  Ammy  with  her  splendid 
health  and  physique  had  many  years  of  happy  life 
in  front  of  her.  No  shadow  of  the  tragedy  had  ap- 
peared then  to  darken  the  serene  horizon.  Europe 
had  lain  basking  in  a  peace  that  held  no  presage  of 
coming  calamity.  Ammy  and  her  husband  had  been 
but  two  insignificant  victims  in  the  gigantic  sum  of 
dead.  They  had  been  simply  swept  away  in  the  very 
fulness  of  their  youth  and  strength,  as  young  trees 
are  flung  to  earth  and  uprooted  by  the  advancing 
storm. 

"Poor  Mrs.  Porter  seemed  very  devoted  to  the 
baby,"  said  Gillian.  "I  hope  it  may  comfort  her  to 
look  after  him.  She  has  left  London  on  purpose 
that  he  may  have  country  air." 

"And  you  yourself,  Mrs.  Driscoll?  I  hope  you're 
not  overdoing  it.  You're  looking  rather  pale  and 
thin." 

"Oh,  I'm  never  very  fat,"  said  Gillian,  flushing 
a  little. 

"I'm  sure  Mrs.  Carrington  takes  care  of  you?" 
he  said. 

"She  is  most  awfully  kind  and  thoughtful  for 
every  one  but  herself.  We  are  great  friends,"  Gil- 
lian answered. 

"Ah,  I  thought  you  would  be,"  he  said.  "I  felt 
sure  you  would  get  on  together.  One  often  makes 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  371 

mistakes  about  these  things,  I  know,  but  I  did  feel 
pretty  sure  about  this." 

He  went  away  feeling  quite  satisfied  about  Gillian. 
There  was  no  least  touch  about  her  now  of  that  old 
rebellion.  She  had  been  severely,  even  sharply,  han- 
dled in  the  House  of  the  Potter,  had  submitted  to  the 
agony  of  that  new  shaping  with  a  resignation  and 
patience  he  could  not  but  perceive  with  admiration. 
He  thought  she  had  emerged  from  that  fiery  ordeal 
more  beautiful  than  ever. 

Summer  had  come  to  Les  Sables,  and  with  it  calm 
seas  and  softer  airs.  The  gorse  had  broken  into  gold 
in  the  pine-woods  and  upon  the  dunes.  A  few  bathers 
were  sometimes  to  be  seen,  women  and  children  who 
had  come  to  spend  the  summer  as  usual  at  Les  Sables. 
But  there  was  none  of  the  gaiety  in  the  scene  that 
there  had  been  in  past  years.  Even  the  children 
played  their  games  in  a  quiet,  subdued  fashion.  Some 
of  them  wore  black  frocks  and  suits  that  spoke  of 
personal  tragedy.  Gillian  watched  them  sometimes 
with  aching  heart. 

One  evening  she  had  gone  alone  for  a  walk  on  the 
shore.  It  was  a  beautiful  June  evening,  nearing  the 
hour  of  sunset.  Already  the  wide  stretch  of  sand 
was  becoming  a  glimmering  space  of  gold,  almost  as 
luminous  and  fluid-looking  as  the  turquoise  and  silver 
sea  that  lay  beyond.  The  pine-woods  lay  like  dark 
shadows  beyond  the  pallor  of  the  dunes.  The  day 
had  been  hot,  but  now  a  cool  brackish  air  had  sprung 
up.  It  revived  Gillian,  who  had  been  on  duty  for 
many  hours  in  the  wards,  for  a  new  batch  of  wounded 
had  come  in  that  day,  and  their  hands  had  all  been 
full.  It  was  a  relief  to  come  out  and  breathe  the 
fresh  and  sweet  summer  air.  Gillian  walked  on 
briskly,  pausing  from  time  to  time  to  watch  the  little 
blue  and  white  waves  breaking  and  tumbling  over 


372  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

each  other  with  white  cascades  of  foam  that  shone 
like  snow  as  they  touched  the  yellow  'sand.  Over 
there  to  the  west  the  sun  was  setting  behind  the 
hidden  English  cliffs. 

There  were  little  pools  in  the  sand ;  here  and  there 
a  tress  of  red  seaweed  lay  like  wet  hair  on  the  golden 
ribbed  surface;  the  waves  creeping  stealthily  shore- 
wards  sent  little  curling  lace-like  fringes  to  encircle 
the  dark  gleaming  rocks. 

Gillian  looked  at  her  watch.  It  was  growing  late, 
and  she  turned  to  retrace  her  steps.  She  had  thought 
she  was  quite  alone ;  there  had  seemed  no  one  at  all 
about;  now  she  was  aware  that  the  figure  of  a  man, 
blackly  silhouetted  against  the  gold  and  blue,  was 
coming  slowly  towards  her.  A  slight  spare  figure, 
most  familiar,  and — most  dear. 

It  was  Paul  Pallant.  .  .  . 

Gillian  stood  quite  still  and  her  limbs  trembled  as 
he  came  towards  her.  Her  first  feeling  was  one  of 
anger  and  indignation  that  he  should  have  dared  to 
come  and  seek  her  at  Les  Sables  after  those  months 
of  silence.  Perhaps  he  had  come  to  tell  her  definitely 
of  his  approaching  marriage  to  Blanche  Ethan.  She 
felt  certain  that  only  the  stress  of  some  great  and 
urgent  necessity  could  have  brought  him  hither.  Yet 
why  had  he  not  written?  Surely  it  would  have  been 
easier  to  write  news  of  that  kind  than  to  come  in 
person  to  disclose  it.  ... 

Now  he  was  quite  close  to  her;  he  could  see  that 
she  recognized  him,  but  still  he  did  not  speak.  He 
stood  and  looked  at  her  with  an  expression  in  his 
eyes  that  she  felt  she  could  never  forget — a  look  of 
love  and  most  patient  longing  that  touched  her  heart. 
Had  he  come,  in  spite  of  all  things,  because  he  could 
not  stay  away  any  longer?  Had  all  his  resolutions 
broken  down?  If  that  were  the  reason  he  had  no 
right  to  subject  her  also  to  this  torture. 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  373 

In  the  silence  that  followed  they  could  hear  the 
sleepy  murmur  of  those  breaking  baby-waves,  the 
low  sighing  of  the  wind  in  the  pine  trees,  the  sharp 
shrill,  frightened  cries  of  the  sea-gulls  that  swept  and 
circled  above  their  heads. 

Often  and  often  he  had  come  to  her  thus  in  her 
dreams;  now  the  splendid  cruel  reality  seemed 
scarcely  less  phantom-like.  She  drew  a  little  away, 
shrinking  from  the  arms  he  suddenly  outstretched. 

"Oh,  Paul — why  have  you  come?    I  was  trying  to 

forget  you "     Her  voice  was  hoarse  with  the 

effort  she  was  making  to  keep  back  her  sobs. 

"Jill  .  .  .  Jill  .  .  .  beloved  .  .  ."he  said.  He 
put  his  arms  round  her,  for  now  she  was  swaying  a 
little,  as  if  to  support  her.  Her  darling  head  was 
against  his  shoulder;  their  lips  met. 

And  his  voice  was  whispering  strange,  passionate, 
incomprehensible,  unbelievable  words  in  her  ear. 

"Jill — Jill  you  are  mine  now.  Do  you  hear  that, 
my  darling?  There's  nothing  between  us  any 
more.  .  .  .  You  are  free,  and  you  are  mine.  .  .  . 
I've  come  here  to  claim  my  darling  bride.  .  .  ." 
He  uttered  softly  again  and  again  words  of  the  same 
purport,  as  if  determined  that  she  should  realise  and 
understand.  "Darling — speak  to  me.  Say  that  you 
do  love  me  still.  Say  that  these  months  of  separa- 
tion haven't  changed  your  heart.  ..." 

She  moaned  again:  "Oh,  why  have  you  come? 
You  must  be  mad  to  come  back  like  this.  You  must 
never  try  to  see  me  again.  ..." 

"Then  you  don't  love  me?"  He  loosened  his  hold 
of  her.  He  stood  in  front  of  her,  dark,  stern,  re- 
proachful. "All  those  reasons  you  gave  me  last 
autumn  for  not  marrying  me  were  only  excuses  to 
hide  the  fact  that  you'd  ceased  to  care?" 

"My  reasons  still  hold  good,"  she  said  coldly;  "it 


374  THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE 

can  make  no  difference  whether  I  care  for  you  or  not. 
I  cannot  marry  you." 

"Is  it  possible,"  he  said,  "that  you  haven't  heard?" 

She  was  conscious  now  that  he  was  looking  at  her 
with  a  very  strange  and  curious  expression. 

Some  dim  suspicion  of  the  truth  was  awakened 
within  her  mind.  It  fluttered  there,  indeterminate, 
formless. 

"That  I  have  not  heard?"  she  said. 

"Aylmer  is  dead,"  he  said  gravely.  "I  thought  of 
course  you  knew.  He  was  smashed  up  on  his  motor- 
cycle last  week  while  carrying  dispatches.  He  died 
on  Saturday  at  Boulogne." 

"Was — was  Deborah  with  him?"  she  asked.  Her 
face  was  very  white.  He  could  see  that  the  news 
had  shocked  her  profoundly. 

"No — she  said  that  she  couldn't  leave  her  father. 
But  it  seems  he  told  the  doctor — whom  I  have  seen — 
that  his  wife  couldn't  stand  horrors,  and  that  he  was 
afraid  she  would  refuse  to  come.  Can  you  believe 
any  woman  could  be  so  utterly  selfish  as  all  that?" 

"Did  he  suffer  very  much?"  she  asked. 

The  past,  remote  now  but  still  irrevocable  and 
dominating,  held  her  in  its  grip. 

"At  first — but  they  kept  him  under  morphia.  He 
was  full  of  pluck,  they  said,  very  anxious  about  his 
dispatches,  which  were  luckily  quite  safe." 

Paul  took  Gillian's  hands  in  his  and  wondered 
why  they  were  so  cold. 

"Jill  dear,"  he  said,  "I  felt  I  must  come  to-day  and 
there  was  no  time  to  write.  I  saw  Mrs.  Carrington 
for  a  moment  and  she  told  me  you  had  gone  for  a 
walk  along  the  shore."  He  looked  at  her  wistfully. 
"I've  just  got  a  fortnight's  leave.  At  any  other  time 
I  shouldn't  dare  ask  you  to  marry  me — I  know  it's 
too  soon  and  all  that.  But  now  .  .  .  We  have 
waited  a  long  time,  haven't  we,  Jill?  I  want  you  to 


THE  POTTER'S  HOUSE  375 

come  back  to  England  with  me  to-morrow.  .  .  ." 
His  eyes  searched  her  face. 

All  the  barriers  had  melted  away.  She  could  feel 
pity  for  the  dead  man  who  had  once  loved  her  and 
who  had  died,  abandoned  and  deserted  by  the  woman 
for  whom  he  had  left  her.  She  was  free  now  to 
love  and  marry  Paul.  She  moved  a  step  nearer  to 
him  and  her  face  in  the  evening  light  seemed  to  him 
almost  transfigured. 

"I  will  come,  Paul,"  she  said  softly. 


THE  END 


PRINTED    BY    BEXZIGER    BROTHERS,    NEW    YORK 


UC SOUTHERN  REGIONAL UHWRYFACIUTY 


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